


A Derailed Train of Thought

by Ms_Anthrop



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Community: sshg_giftfest, Dark Magic, Drama, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Forgiveness, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gen, HP: EWE, Healing, Hogwarts Express, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Innuendo, Legilimency, Magic, Matchmaking, Mystery, Protective Magic and Wards, Romance, Second Chances, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Students, Suspense, Teaching, Trauma, Travel, dual timelines
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2018-12-20 16:24:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 68,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11924697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ms_Anthrop/pseuds/Ms_Anthrop
Summary: As the tenth anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts approaches, Minerva McGonagall decides to exercise her inner Slytherin with a spot of plotting. The result? Snape and Granger are forced to chaperone a year-long exchange trip to Beauxbatons. What could possibly go wrong? Written for Gemini Sister as part of the 2015 LJ SSHG GiftFest.





	1. Of Tits and Tats

**Author's Note:**

> This a greatly expanded version of the story that I wrote for the 2015 round of the SSHG Gift-Fest over on LJ; as to not spoil the story, I'll be posting the wonderful prompt at the end. While I have the first ten or so chapters finished (and everything else is plotted out!) it's still a WIP, so bear with me. 
> 
> There are many people I need to thank as I finally finish the expansion of the story. First, I want to the acknowledge mods, Amorette and Delphi, who put in a crazy amount of work to pull off yet another amazing fest. This would never have been finished without the not-so-gentle nudges of Nate (aka Flying SPaGhetti Monster) who despite not being an SSHG shipper- or not having read any of the Harry Potter books- still did a masterful job at correcting my many, many errors. Alas, my abundance of commas might have killed him. Coco96 beta'd the first two chapters, Delphi proof-read the entire story prior to the start of the fest, and Gelsey is beta'd the first round of expanions. 
> 
> As always, I value and really appreciate your comments and support- let me know what you think!

"It is perfectly true, as the philosophers say, that life must be understood backwards. But they forget the other proposition: that it must be lived forwards."- Søren Kierkegaard

 

_Prologue - Of Tits and Tats_

_2 May 2008_

For all that it was supposedly spring—nearly summer, at that—the wind whipping off the Black Lake was surprisingly icy. Minerva McGonagall closed her eyes, permitting herself a rare moment of indulgence; inhaling deeply of the damp, swirling, Scots air, she let herself simply feel the world unfolding about her. While the solid stonework of the Hogsmeade Station at her back served to buffer the breeze, the force of it was still enough to make her robes dance merrily around her feet and legs. For a brief second, she fancied dancing with the wind, of being swept away in its pine and smoke-scented embrace.

 _Ahh_ , she mused wistfully, _but to have the freedom to go where the wind would take me. To leave my worries and cares—not to mention all that ruddy paperwork! —far, far below…_

She had wanted, quite badly, to go on this trip. Despite her love for the imposing, looming pile of stones perched on the far side of the Black Lake, it had taken considerable willpower not to eagerly snatch the chaperoning duties from Severus. Naturally, the dratted man had grumbled and protested that he didn't want to go to France right until the minute she'd pushed him onto the Hogwarts Express and firmly shut the door on his bony arse.

Had he even an inkling how much she would have loved to tour the French countryside or sit in the academic salons of Beauxbatons, there would have been no managing him in such a fashion. She had presented him with a litany of reasons why she couldn't go, of course: she had a new apprentice, had been recently made a great-aunt, and was in the middle of re-writing the Transfiguration syllabus…

As co-heads of the school, one of them had to go, and Severus had grudgingly given in when it became clear that she wouldn't. Minerva had been both relieved and fiercely jealous. But the truth was, he'd needed the trip—and indeed, the distance, physical and metaphorical—much more than she had. That much had been clear; she had seen it in the restless way he had taken to scanning his surroundings every time he entered a room. A quiet and lingering dissatisfaction had seemed to settle over him throughout the previous year, and she had watched as his temper had soured into equal parts apathy and bitter ennui. It had all finally come to a head on his forty-seventh birthday.

Against all odds, Severus Snape had lived, even flourished, following the Fall of Voldemort. For almost ten years that fact alone had been enough to make him a contented man, until that fine, snowy January evening. Cake had been eaten and a satisfying amount of presents had been given, but she'd seen the cool detachment that filled his eyes as he glanced around the staff lounge.

_Is this all there is? Is this all I will have?_

The bleak thought seemed to hang over his head for the space of several heartbeats, and it was a sentiment that Minerva had fully understood. Granted, she had not been paralysed by that particular notion until the dawning of her sixtieth birthday, but still, she readily recalled that hopeless, gut-wrenching feeling of life having passed her by with very little to show for it.

The problem, she reckoned, was that for the vast majority of his years Severus Snape had not been free to be his own man. He had not developed habits and relationships based on his own needs and wants. Add to the equation his inherently sarcastic and prickly mien… Well, it was no wonder that he found himself alone, unfulfilled and unhappy with no notion of how to step out of his plodding path. But unlike her, he was young yet and with the better part of his years before him; matters might be desperate, but they were far from dire. And so, after deciding that her meddling could be excused due to his willful and continued inaction, Minerva McGonagall had started to plot and plan in earnest.

When she had been a student, it was customary that a select group of sixth-year Hogwarts students would spend the year at either Beauxbatons or Durmstrang, and in return, Hogwarts would likewise host foreign scholars the following year. While Durmstrang was not interested in reviving the tradition—and Minerva was damned if she was going to send Severus to the cold and unforgiving north to 'find' himself—it had been easy enough to settle matters with Beauxbatons. She vowed that he would finally get a chance to live and breathe outside the familiar strictures of Hogwarts. Moreover, she hoped that familiarity would no longer breed contempt; perhaps he'd have a chance to gain some of what he was missing.

In a matter of three months, the exchange had been agreed upon. Eight students had been chosen, and she had the distinct pleasure of manoeuvring Hermione into going as well. Her favourite little lioness had been in just as much need of a holiday as Severus, and if the letters and bits of gossip she had received were any indication, things had progressed rather well on several fronts.

The soft chittering of a bird and indistinct hum of village life finally broke into her internal reverie. Blinking against bright mid-afternoon light, she announced, "A Crested tit, I would think."

"Ma'am?" her secretarial assistant, Matthew Clarke, queried, a flush racing over his round, innocent cheeks.

 _Bless him_ , she thought with no little amusement. _I really shouldn't take so much joy in befuddling the poor lad. But then again, he makes such an easy target_.

Pointing to the tree line, she dryly clarified. "It sounds like there is a nest of Crested tits in the pines at the end of the platform."

"Oh. You were speaking of birds…" the boy murmured, face closing in on crimson.

"I've always preferred Great tits, myself," a third voice interjected. "Better plumage, don't you know…"

Minerva turned to see the smirking expression of Hugh Monroe, the grey-haired Hogsmeade Station Master. The man stamped towards them with an avuncular joy, and she laughed at his ready sally.

"One would only need to meet any of your former wives to deduce that, Hugh."

"I am nothing if not a consistent man, Headmistress."

The wind picked up again, moaning softly through the woods like a living thing. All three pulled coats and robes tighter in response. Hugh's tone turned more matter of fact. "Come now, you've been standing outside for the better part of twenty minutes. Let's go inside and have a hot cup of tea while we wait. It's not as if the Express can sneak up on us, after all."

Minerva shivered slightly, registering the growing stiffness in her extremities. "I'll not say no to an offer like that, especially if you are willing to part with a bit of that whiskey that your brother is so famous for."

The man bowed smartly, teeth flashing in a piratical smile. "For you, I would be willing to part with more than just a tipple…"

Wryly, she glanced down at her modest bosom and then met his glinting blue gaze. "Ahh, but I am no Great tit."

"Be that as it may, what plumage you do possess is rather fine." His grin had warmed, and Minerva felt the barest hint of a blush touch her own cheeks. "And isn't it you that always harps on about quality being more desirable than quantity? Perhaps I should finally give that old adage a proper go."

Her assistant squirmed uneasily, and she had to fight back another laugh. _That's right, boyo. Old people flirt, too; sometimes we even do more than that…_

Deciding that she'd let Hugh win this round, she blandly glanced at the boy next to her. "Come, Mr Clarke. Let us get out of the elements and take the good Station Master up on his offer of tea," she said with as much motherly kindness as she could muster. _Must not smirk..._

As she turned to go in, the cold wind strengthened, and the air abruptly turned smokier; eyes watering, she blinked rapidly. The strong lines of Hogwarts in the distance reduced to a blurred jumble. For just a moment, the world around her seemed to freeze, recalling another smoke-filled May afternoon ten years before.

The Castle in utter ruins, broken bodies—friend and foe alike—spread about the grounds like forgotten toy soldiers. The darkness of that day seemed to slither up her spine; she'd failed Hogwarts in so many ways… failed her students, her colleagues, and, most of all, Severus. _I should have known!_

Then the breeze shifted again, returning to its usual scent of loam and forest. With that timely interruption, Minerva was able to marshal her wayward thoughts back into line. She'd always hated anniversaries, whether they be of the romantic variety or otherwise. Today was no different; one could not go back and change the past. _Severus has forgiven you_ , she reminded herself firmly. _You have made all the amends that are possible. As for the dead… Well, there is no fixing that. One can only live better._

Resolutely, she walked forward, the steady sound of her boot heels striking the macadam giving no hint of her inner unease. Something must have shown in her eyes, however, because there was a hint of latent compassion in Hugh's gaze as he held open the door for them. Wisely, he did not comment on it, and Minerva was thankful for that small mercy.

In a flurry of footsteps, they entered the cluttered warmth of Hugh's office, and she was pleased to note that he already had the tea service laid out on the table.

"Be a love, Minerva, and play mother while I look at the map and see where the Express is. She should have pulled in a good ten minutes ago…"

She had just poured Clarke a cuppa when she saw Hugh go rigid. Carefully, she put the pot down, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature settle in her stomach. _No. Not again after so many years. We should be safe!_

"Hugh," she questioned, rising swiftly from the table, "…what's the matter?"

"She's gone." His voice had lost all merriment.

Bustling over to the large, enchanted map on the far wall, Minerva peered over his shoulder. "What do you mean, gone?"

Hugh's blue eyes were streaking up and down the map in disbelief. "The Express… she's not on the map. Not anywhere." A blunt finger poked at a point near the centre. "I looked not a half hour ago, and she was just north of Stirling."

He turned to face her; fear and a growing horror clear in his expression.

"Headmistress, the Hogwarts Express has gone missing."


	2. Chapter 1- Bringing Up the Rear

_3 September 2007- Seven Months Earlier_

"Honestly, woman!" Snape exclaimed as he was rudely shoved onto the Hogwarts Express, leaping forward just in time as the heavy door slammed shut behind him.

Stumbling slightly, Snape fought the urge to reach behind and confirm that he still possessed the entirety of his posterior. Minerva had given him precious little time to step clear of the door, and it had only been by the slimmest of margins that he'd not been struck. _And wouldn't that have been the perfect way to begin this bloody trip: half-assed in both spirit and reality_.

With a final ear-piercing whistle, the train lurched into motion, and he swivelled to peer out the window. Minerva looked all too pleased and gave him an impudent wave as the platform slid away. _Cheeky bint_ , he thought, glowering back at her. _Oh, but when I get back to Hogwarts… A rash of spiked cat balm, perhaps?_ _We'll see how much she enjoys that!_

Wrapping his cloak more firmly about himself, he made for the passenger lounge, hearing the bubbling, animated tones of the Charms Professor chivvying the students into the common space.

"Miss Payton, there will be plenty of time to unpack, I promise you." Granger stood in the middle of the corridor, hands on hips. "Come along, we have a few matters to attend to before we settle in for the journey."

The Hufflepuff girl relented and followed the stream of others down the train. He paced behind, saying nothing. _At least Granger can be counted upon to do the bossing about. Oh, the joy of living life solely by its silver linings…_

Space was at a premium when he finally reached the lounge car, and the cramped conditions did little to improve his temper. In addition to Granger and the eight students, a boy and girl from each house, there were two House Elves and Madame Gresham in attendance.

The group eyed him expectantly, and he wasted no time getting down to brass tacks. "Before I go over the safety and security protocols of the Express, I want to ensure that we all understand some of the rules that will dictate our lives during this trip. First, I believe that you will all recall Madame Gresham from her normal trolley duties; she has consented to act as our housekeeper and cook. Assisting her are Millie and Max." He gestured to the two House-Elves. "Given the limited nature of the staff, we all will be individually responsible for our own upkeep and most minor concerns. While you will be provided laundry and linen services, you will be responsible for keeping your compartment tidy. There will also be a rotating cleaning roster for the common spaces."

Scanning the excited faces of the children—and damned if Granger's eager expression didn't have them all beat—Snape fought to keep his own visage free of the sneer that was just itching to be unleashed.

"While you will necessarily enjoy more freedoms than you would normally at Hogwarts, that does not mean that the code of conduct has altered in any fashion. You not only represent the best of Hogwarts but also of Great Britain."

Snape was aware that his pompous and somewhat redundant speech was making him sound like a joyless bastard, but he wasn't aiming for a rousing, soul-stirring invocation. He wanted utter compliance and a minimum of hassle. The year was going to be trying enough as it was. _Why are they so excited?_ he wondered, droning on about duty. _We are leaving all the comforts and security of home for what amounts to a year living in a cramped caravan at the arse end of the Beauxbatons' grounds. Strangers in a strange land and all that rot._

Truly, he did not understand this harebrained notion of Minerva's, nor why, after working so hard to resurrecting the old tradition, she had not seen fit to follow it to the obvious end. She was the one always travelling and nattering on about fostering healthy exchanges. He, on the other hand, preferred routines and sticking close to Hogwarts; after so many years of living life on the razor's edge, he now gloried in the mundane banality of his everyday existence.

 _Well, most of the time…_ Yes, as of late, he'd been twitchy. But that was due to a lack of a project rather than any sort of indictment of his lifestyle. _And Minerva had the gall to call this a sabbatical!_

"…have I made myself clear?" Finishing the long-winded speech, he noted with some satisfaction that the better part of the children's enthusiasm had fled. Granger, however, was as insufferable as ever, and appeared to be amused by his words, not one iota of her delight dimmed.

 _Merlin save me from Gryffindors… that one hasn't changed at all._ His barbs and sarcasm had never deterred her as a student, and it would be an act of wishful stupidity on his part to think that she would change this late in the game. _Fuck me_ , he thought, taking in the way she almost seemed to vibrate with anticipation. _This is going to be a bloody long year. At least the wine should be acceptable..._

* * *

Five hours—and several hundred kilometres farther from Hogwarts—found Snape absently peering at a charms text, an ill-defined anxiety increasingly gnawing at him. Granger's cheerful entry into the staff compartment did nothing to sweeten his temper. Pouring a cup of tea from the sideboard, she settled on the sofa across from him, peering out the window with bright-eyed interest.

"The conductor says that we are only about twenty minutes from the Channel, and once we get to Calais, it should only be another four hours or so before we reach Beauxbatons."

"As I helped create it, I am well aware of the timetable, Professor Granger," he replied through gritted teeth.

Her mouth quirked, and she merely went back to staring out the window. Pointedly, he went back to his book, but it was all for show. He was not looking forward to the next part of the trip—really, any part of it—but the following section would be his own personal bit of hell.

He would have preferred taking a Portkey to France, but there was a significant advantage to having the Hogwarts Express carry them there. In addition to giving them a place live while at Beauxbatons, making the entire journey on the train with the students allowed some of the stronger wards of the school to travel with them; in essence, the train would become an annexe of the Castle with all the accompanying protections.

Having that added security had granted him a measure of peace; within the heavily charmed confines of the Express, there was very little that could harm them. However, the planning involved in getting the train to France had been beyond tedious, with significant debate about what route the Express should take. In the end, it was decided that going through the Chunnel proper in a magically-enhanced, hidden steam train was stretching the limits of both safety and better sense. Thus the Magical Ministries of Britain and France had created a special track over the top of the water to ferry them across.

In theory, then, the alternate route should not be an issue. In reality? He bloody well hated the water. Oh, it was decent enough to look at, he supposed, but he did not see it with the same romantic fascination that it seemed to have for others. More importantly, he hated crossing any body of water, regardless of size… and now they would be making their way across the choppy Channel Sea in what amounted to a seventy-five-tonne iron coffin. On invisible tracks, no less.

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

Snape had never learned to swim as child—rubbish and rats were the only things to be found bobbing about in Cokeworth's canals—and his first boat ride upon his matriculation to Hogwarts had been an absolute disaster. He'd been terrified and equally determined that Lily not see his fear of the rickety boats; naturally, their dinghy had capsized after an idiotic Hufflepuff girl had abruptly stood up to get a better view of the Castle. If not for Thomas Mulciber's quick actions by jumping in to save him, Severus would have drowned. And then in his third year, when he'd decided to finally face his fear of the water and learn how to swim, the ruddy Giant Squid had been feeling decidedly... frisky. He'd not tried that again.

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

A glint of mercury on the horizon harkened the coming sea, and Snape forced himself to sit still, no matter his desperate urge to pace. Dismissing visions of salt water slapping on the train windows as they sank into the dark depths, Snape focused on his breathing and Occlumency. He had just about shoved his meddlesome thoughts into the cold storage of his shields when Granger's chirpy voice broke his concentration.

"Oh, is that _Charmingly Fluent_ by Broadbent? She lays out the basic theories rather well, but I think I like _Il Linguista Astuzia_ a tad better, even if it falls more on the classical side. Have you read it?"

Snape glanced up and met Granger's gaze with a chilly dispassion. "Yes."

Again, there was that little quirk of her mouth, the fuller curve of her lower lip temporarily emphasised. It sparked his ire: did she think she was humouring him by persisting in making idle conversation?

His lack of a response—and his obvious non-verbal warning—were ignored. "And have you settled on which Translation Charm you are going to use? Or is your French good enough that you are going to try to go without a charm? Mine isn't quite up to par, but I'm willing to sacrifice a few months of mistakes for gaining real fluency."

"I don't speak French."

That threw her, and he enjoyed her look of confusion. Snape was fluent in Italian, Vulgar Latin, Modern and Ancient Greek, had passable German, and could read enough Classical Arabic to be dangerous; it wasn't as if he was lacking in the language department. However, his pursuit of those tongues had nothing to do with a love of language or the hope of connecting with others. It was far more practical than that. As a Potions Master, he needed to be able to read texts in their native context, and he'd chosen to learn Greek over French because the majority of French Potioneers had been Catholic and thus had written in Latin.

"I've always wished that Hogwarts had offered French among the elective courses," she continued after an awkward pause. "I was lucky enough to pick up some of the language when we holidayed there. And once I got back… well, I think you are familiar enough with my revision habits. I am surprised to hear that you don't speak any French."

With a snap, he shut the book. The late golden-hued afternoon light spilt from the windows, illuminating Granger in a way that emphasised both her lingering youth and inherent softness. Despite everything, she had retained her well-cared for, upper-middle-class mien: she was comfortable and secure in her skin in a way that he had never been.

That infuriated him, her casual insouciance. But more than that, it reminded him of all his inadequacies. Outside of the blanket condemnation and hate people held for him, he was painted as the wizarding world's version of 007, minus all the gratuitous shagging and handy gadgets. And whilst he could come across as cultured and sophisticated, the truth was far, far from that. In his heart, Snape was a Manc and a gutter-variety Mancunian specimen at that. He certainly hadn't holidayed in the South of France as a child. Hell, he'd not ever even left the UK but for a short trip to Ireland for a Potions conference, and that had been well over five years ago.

In the dark of the night, when his past pressed at him the most, Severus felt like a fraud. His accent, manners, everything, had been a well-constructed act. Now he was being stripped from the one place he felt whole, the only place that had ever felt like home, and was being forced to deal with the ever-chipper and curious Professor Granger... With that thought, his temper finally broke free.

"I do not speak French, Professor Granger, because at the same time you were busy holidaying in France, my focus was otherwise monopolized by the delightful attentions of the Dark Lord and Albus Dumbledore. I did not have the luxury of such frivolous nonsense."

He stood in a wave of black wool, looming over her like a bird of prey. The sudden increase in height afforded him a better view out the windows of the coming abyss, and he shuddered, pushing back the sensation of water pulling him down.

"Nor do I now have time to listen to you babble on about matters best left unsaid. I assure you, madam, had I any wish for your views concerning Charms—or any other subject—I would do us both the courtesy of simple expediency by asking. Until I do so, you may assume that I prefer silence."

Turning sharply on his heel, he fled the compartment.

* * *

Hermione lay in her bunk, the persistent sensation of motion running through her despite the fact that had they reached their destination a good four hours earlier. The arrival of the Hogwarts Express at Beauxbatons had been accompanied with much fanfare; indeed, it had brought back her own memories of the start of the Tri-Wizard Tournament. The shining white splendour of the school, so reminiscent of the Palace of Versailles, had been awe-inducing. After introductions, they had been treated to a lavish, multi-course meal, and the students' behaviour had been all she could have asked for.

_The Headmaster, on the other hand…_

Well, it had never been more evident that he had a giant stick lodged up his arse. Hermione had half a mind to pull it out and bludger him over the head with it. Indeed, she'd even be polite enough to put it back when finished.

During the feast, Professor Snape had eaten little, said even less, and watched events with a silent suspicion that bordered on rude. Apparently, he expected her to carry on with the social niceties and take care of all the children to boot. _And that_ , she thought spitefully, _is not going to continue another ruddy minute. There is a reason I'm not married with a litter of red-headed monsters trailing behind me. Snape is either going to start pulling his weight, or I rat him out to Minerva._

While the approach nominally smacked of running to Mum, it was also the most effective way of payback. She wasn't about to try and out-Slytherin the King-of-All-Things-Snake, and embarrassing him publicly would only make her look bad in the long run. However, for all that they were co-heads, Minerva could, and would, occasionally pull rank on Snape. The older woman had been at Hogwarts longer than he'd been alive, after all, and had lost none of her no-nonsense demeanour. More importantly, Minerva was one of the few people that he counted as a friend and confidant.

Minerva had warned her—several times, as a matter of fact—that Snape was likely to be a grumpy, malcontented arse until he settled in. For her part, Hermione had waved away that concern. While he had never been sociable to her, he'd been scrupulously polite since she'd been hired on as a professor. It would be a bit bumpy, she reckoned, but they would rub together well enough.

_Bumpy? This afternoon was less of a potholed road and more along the lines of being thrown off a gaping abyss…_

Hermione knew that Snape had never personally liked her. That much had been painfully obvious since the very first class she'd had with him, and time had not improved relations terribly much. However, she'd assumed that he at least respected her: if not for her skills in Charms and teaching, then for her role in bringing down Voldemort.

And despite being a bully and a bastard of the highest order, he was quite easily the bravest and most brilliant man she knew. Perhaps it had been a touch naïve, but one of the reasons that she had been looking forward to this trip was a chance to finally get to know the man beneath the infamous billowing black robes. She'd seen hints of that person over the years, and to hear Minerva tell it, he had a wonderful sense of humour in addition to his keen intellect.

For the first couple of hours of the train ride, it appeared that she had gotten her wish. Snape had seemed more human than she'd ever seen. He was no longer the blank cypher of her childhood, and it had been almost charming to watch him grow increasingly flustered as they left the familiar confines of the UK behind.

She'd teased him a tad, trying to see if he would loosen up. Treating him like one of the boys had apparently been the wrong approach; while she had been anticipating his temper, she had not been expecting the utter loathing and contempt in his expression as he delivered his scathing comments. Oh, sure his words had stung, but frankly, she'd heard worse over the years. That he apparently held absolutely no respect for her, on the other hand…

The humiliation of it still burned brightly in her chest. _Apparently, his approval still means a lot_ , she mused somewhat bitterly. _And now what to do? I am stuck dealing with him for the rest of the year. If we were at Hogwarts, it could perhaps be managed, but on this trip? God, but this could get ugly!_

With a sigh, she rolled over and then fluffed the pillow with more force than was necessary. _I'll speak with Minerva tomorrow. She's bound to have some good advice, at least…_

* * *

It wasn't until mid-afternoon of the next day that Hermione had a private moment to contact the Headmistress. Walking over to the enchanted portrait hanging on the wall of the private sitting room, she activated the charm and waited for the connection to stabilize. The painting—an empty view of the Head's office—went blurry for the space of several heartbeats before the older woman's figure suddenly appeared at the desk.

Hermione smiled with satisfaction as Minerva glanced up. _This is so much more civilized than using the Floo_ , she thought with satisfaction. The project had been the culmination of her Mastery and well worth the hard work and sleepless nights. Instead of having to bend down and use the fireplace, the linked portraits she had created allowed for real-time conversations with a minimum of fuss.

"So, you made it safely, I see," Minerva remarked dryly as the background around her sharpened.

"We did. Beauxbatons is absolutely stunning. The welcoming feast was lovely, and the students acquitted themselves very well," she replied, keeping her voice even. "You would be proud."

Minerva raised a brow, not fooled by her evasion. "And how did Severus do?"

"Three guesses and the first two don't count."

The other woman sighed. "Should I warn Kingsley about a brewing diplomatic issue?"

"It was neither that dramatic nor that serious," Hermione said, letting some of her humour fade. "We got into a bit of a tiff on the way down, and he was rather… recalcitrant during the feast."

"Dare I ask what he said?"

Hermione shook her head. "At the moment, I'd like to keep it between the two of us. I'll take any general advice, however."

"Make him squirm a bit. Hold out for an apology—a verbal one, mind you—and then forgive it. He usually does regret the utter tosh that falls out of his mouth, believe me."

"And what happens when he doesn't regret it, or at least the sentiment behind it?"

"Heavens, Hermione, what did he say to you?" The chair creaked as Minerva leaned back, gaze assessing.

For a moment, she was strongly tempted to confide in her mentor; all night, the memory of Snape's overwhelming derision had been troubling her like a particularly bad blister. _No. Better not. It's not like I don't know my own worth, and I need to work this one out on my own._ "Nothing but utter tosh," she finally replied.

The Headmistress was silent for several seconds. "As I said, then, make him squirm. Don't be subtle about your anger. The lad has not had nearly enough practice at apologizing. And if he continues to play the prat, I'll come down and box his ears."

"And has that strategy worked particularly well in the past?"

That earned her a laugh. "Not terribly, no. But it rather does make one feel better."

"I'll be sure to keep it in mind, just in case."

"As you should. Just don't let him define this trip for you, Hermione. Now, tell me about the welcoming feast. Did Maxime manage to outdo us in that respect as well?..."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this story, I will be switching between two different times- May of 2008 and various months in 2007- so be sure that you are noting the different dates to avoid confusion.
> 
> "Il Linguista Astuzia" can be translated into "The Cunning Linguist". No wonder Hermione is a fan, eh?


	3. The Other Shoe

_17 September 2007_

Other than the crunch of gravel under his boots and the low drone of bees amongst the lavender, the garden path was blessedly quiet. A better—or at least a less bitter—man might have even called the surroundings bucolic. Snape found it attractive, but it only highlighted the persistent sensation of foreboding that was stalking him.

Nothing had gone wrong on their trip… and that was a problem.

There had been no hiccups or unfortunate incidences on the way down. Dastardly villains had not been revealed upon their arrival to Beauxbatons, nor had there been any other unlucky surprises waiting in store for them. Given the twisted trail his life had taken, it was all highly unusual. Snape felt like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

The students had settled in, taking to their classes with ease. His French counterparts had been gracious but not overly familiar, and he was only teaching two—two!—preps a week. Frankly, he had more leisure time than he knew what to do with, especially as he couldn't sequester himself in the solitary splendour of his dungeons.

Rounding a corner, the Hogwarts Express came into view, the vivid crimson carriages a strong contrast from the more pastoral landscape.

 _Something will go wrong_ , he thought. _Something always does. And when it all goes to hell, I will never let Minerva forget that this was her idea, not mine. If she wanted a bloody student exchange so bad, why couldn't Beauxbatons come to Hogwarts this year?_

Sweeping into the main carriage, Snape made his way down the narrow corridor, mind busy cataloguing the ways in which this expedition could go down in flames. Security was not as tight at Beauxbatons as it was at Hogwarts, so there were innumerable vulnerabilities on that front; then, of course, any number of illnesses or food-borne ailments could strike… recalling the previous evening's calf-eyed glances between one of the Ravenclaws and a French student, Snape mentally added pregnancy to his list of disasters. _Christ, but why did Minerva make me come?_ Opening the door to the staff compartment, he hesitated.

Granger was hunched over the desk, hair falling in a riot of curls that nearly matched the multifaceted sheen of the oaken surface. She glanced up briefly, meeting his eyes, before continuing to scribble away on a letter. _Then again_ , he mused, _maybe I'm worrying all for nought, as the disaster has already occurred. Minerva would bloody well kill me if I came back without her Charms professor: Maxime has already made several jokes about stealing her away, and she certainly seems happy enough here_.

Not surprisingly, matters were still frosty between them. In public, she was polite and deferential as befitting her station, and he could not fault her behaviour one bit. Privately, however, she made no bones about her anger with him. While she wasn't quite subjecting him to the silent treatment—as if he would find that much of a punishment—it was a rather close thing; it had become her habit to leave any room he entered, and she addressed him only when necessary.

He could admit that his comments had been a little harsh; it had been the type of sentiment that he was normally smart enough to keep to himself. Still, Granger's behaviour had not exactly been the wisest course of action, either. The irritating little chit had been trying to get his attention for the entirety of their acquaintance, and it wasn't his fault that she hadn't liked what she'd found once he'd given it to her.

Deciding a cup of tea was in order, Snape walked over to the sideboard and started to rummage through the selections next to the pot. Hearing a chair scrape on the floor, he half-turned to see Granger heading for the door. Biting back a sigh at her continued dramatics, he spoke. "You needn't leave on my account, Professor Granger."

She stopped, raising a finely arched eyebrow. "No, I needn't. However, I prefer not to subject myself to the company of those who so clearly hold me in contempt." Barb duly delivered, she reached for the door latch but paused again, glancing over her shoulder with narrowed eyes. "By the way, Harry will be coming down for the weekend."

With that, she left the compartment, shutting the door silently behind her.

_Bollocks. Minerva is going to kill me…_

* * *

_19 September 2007_

Hermione stood in the contemplative quiet of the antechamber off Madame Maxime's office, waiting for Harry to arrive via Portkey. The wood-panelled room was surprisingly masculine, although given Maxime's rather overwhelming personality, she supposed it was hardly an odd choice of décor. A large Oriental rug dominated the centre of the space, flanked by a pair of low leather sofas on each wall. Tall windows let in the last of the dying light, and it took a force of effort to keep from pacing back and forth, impatient as she was to see her best friend.

Finally, at half past seven, there was a flash of light followed by a muffled pop, and Harry was there. Dropping a duffle bag to the floor, he gave her a crooked grin.

"Happy birthday, Hermione."

She flew to him and in less than a second was in his wiry arms. Breathing in his familiar scent, Hermione relaxed for the first time in what felt like ages. Here, at least, she was safe and loved; since the breakup of her family so many years ago, he was the closest thing to home that she had. His arms tightened around her and abruptly, Hermione realized that she had started to cry. As a raft of privacy spells enveloped them, she let go of her bottled-up emotions in a great gush of tears.

Eventually, she straightened, wiping her wet face with the handkerchief that Harry proffered. Stepping back, she looked up at him and tried to smile.

"Sorry about that."

He gave her a gentle chuck under the chin. "Don't be. It's not as if I've never bawled on your shoulder. Are things that bad, then?"

"Yes, and no," she said with a sigh. "I've written to my parents several times since arriving, and haven't heard a thing back. I thought that today, of all days, I'd get some sort of reply… but there's been nothing from them since the middle of July. And things have been perfectly horrid between Professor Snape and me." Hermione chuckled weakly. "I swear, that man positively excels at making me feel like a petulant youth. He has this way of twisting everything about so that it's all my fault when he's really the one being the bastard…"

"If you want an argument, choose a controversial subject," Harry interjected. "Snape being a git isn't exactly news."

"Be that as it may, I can't exactly escape him, can I? Not here, at least," she grumbled. "All that aside, the trip has gone well enough. It's been brilliant working with Monsieur Chevalier, the Charms Master. His speciality is medieval defensive charms, and there are a few that I want to show you… anyway, it's not been all bad. I'm just a mess, but I'll learn loads this year if anything."

"Good," Harry said and picked up his bag. "Let's get the social niceties over with so we can have a proper chat, shall we?"

This time, her smile was genuine. "Sounds like a plan. I've even held back some dinner for you…"

* * *

The moon was full and fecund, a hunter's moon and Snape took advantage of it as he prowled about the grounds. He missed striding down the long, rambling corridors of the Castle, but Beauxbatons had its recompenses. The climate was warmer and dryer, for one thing; the notable lack of large bodies of water was another.

Hearing the murmur of conversation in a clearing up ahead, he halted. They were close enough to the Express that the only people out should be Hogwarts-related, and he was half-tempted to choose another path and leave the couple to their peace. _No… it's well after curfew. If it's that silly goose of a Ravenclaw out late with her beau, I'll give them the fright of their lives!_

Stealthily, he Disillusioned himself and ghosted forward, trying to discern the identity of the couple on the bench. The girl was snuggled into the side of the boy, who had his arm draped around her shoulders. Two more steps and he caught something familiar in their profiles; then the breeze shifted, bringing their words to him on verbena-scented air.

 _Not students. Potter and Granger_. Again, he almost left them to it, but a niggle of curiosity got the better of him. He had no desire to have a little chinwag with Potter—or Granger, for that matter—but the peculiar intimacy of their position aroused his spy's instincts.

 _Now, isn't that interesting? If I didn't know better…_ Potter had been married to Ginevra Weasley for the better part of eight years and had several children by her. Granger was single, to the best of his knowledge, but there had always been rumours about her and Potter, especially after spending a half a year living together in a tent during the final year of the war.

"…and as miserable as I was last year, I really did hope that getting away would help bring clarity to matters. But it hasn't. I just miss you, and Neville and Minerva on top of everything. And I know that it's only been a couple of weeks, but… I'm just tired of everything in my life being a battle. I'm sick of fighting for every damn thing. First, there was my parents and that whole mess, then Ginny and Ron, and now Snape… so that's where I am."

"We were told that the worst of it was over, weren't we?" Potter said softly, just as Snape thought, _Oh, cry me a river… try watching your abusive father drink away any chance of supper or new clothes. Try living under the dictates of the Dark Lord and Albus Dumbledore!  
_

"That's just it: the worst is over, but it's not gotten easier. I'm bloody well sick of it. On the other hand, what right do I have to whinge when I am alive, and so many better people aren't?" Granger snorted inelegantly. "Merlin's nads, but I feel like a whiny twat going on like this."

"You aren't, Hermione. These aren't exactly little problems, are they? And besides, they are your feelings, good, bad or indifferent. You have every right to feel that way, and to feel them."

"Now that sounds just like a counsellor speaking…"

"Probably because it is. I got this very same lecture last week."

_Well now, isn't that an interesting bit of gossip?_

"Has it helped, going to see her?"

Potter was silent for several moments. "Yeah. A bit. If anything, it's made clear to me that I'm not going to let things continue on the way they are. When I get back on Sunday, Gin and I are going to have a talk. She can either start coming to counselling with me, or I file for divorce."

"That's it, then?"

"Yes. If it were just the two of us, I'd be more willing to see if things got better with time, but with the kids? No. It's not healthy for them to see us fighting at all hours, and half the time, she makes them feel like it's their fault that she's so unhappy. It doesn't seem to matter what we do, it's not enough."

"I'm sorry, Harry."

"Me too." Potter shifted, pulling off his jumper. "Here, take this, you're like a popsicle."

"Do you want me to see if Minerva can find another Professor to come down here and take my spot?"

Snape slipped behind a tree, sneering into the dark. _Oh, no you don't! You're not getting out of this trip so easily, not if I am stuck here…_

Potter shook his head, and from his new position, Snape could see a resigned and bitter expression pass over his features. "No. I hate to say it, but if I do end up filing, it's probably for the best that you are here, rather than anywhere close to me. You know what will be said."

"I just don't want you to have to deal with this all on your own…"

"I won't. France isn't another planet, after all, and I've spoken to Arthur and Molly. They understand and are supportive regardless of what happens. I've also put in for a transfer to a desk position, so I'll have less stress on that front."

In the distance, a night bird called out a plaintive song. Three times it sang the opening of what should have been a duet, but there was no response.

"Is this the point in the conversation when we resort to tired platitudes?" Granger finally asked as a cloud drifted over the moon. "It could be worse, and all that rot?"

"No." Potter stood and offered a hand up. "Come on, you're still shivering. Let's get you inside. I think that this particular situation calls for some of the wine you've been going on so much about."

"If we can't be pissed, we get pissed?" Humour lurked in her tone.

"Something like that."

His former students rose and made for the dim lights of the Express.

* * *

Snape rambled about for another hour, thinking over the secrets gathered. He wasn't surprised to learn that Granger's personal life was in shambles; he heard enough talk in the staff lounge for that to not come as any great revelation. However, given that Potter might as well be the poster child for the Saint of Lost Causes, it was shocking to hear that he might be calling it quits on his marriage. Snape found the news vaguely unsettling, although he couldn't quite pinpoint why.

It wasn't as if he and Potter were friends or even that friendly. While most of his anger towards the Gryffindor was gone, Snape had no lingering desire to spend any further time with him. Naturally, the boy persisted in tracking him down several times a year to interrogate him about his well-being and happiness. Potter used the occasions to try and drag him into some philosophical discussion or another on better living, although Snape found it laughably easy to slither out of those 'debates.'

 _It must be some vestige of concern left over from before_ , he finally mused. _Lord knows that I pulled his arse out of the fire enough times for it to become an unconscious reflex at this point…_

He was nearly back to the door of the Express when the scent of clove cigarettes gave away the fact that he was not alone. Potter stepped out of the shadows, face lit by the glow of the fag.

Snape glared. "Hasn't anyone told you that smoking is a filthy and nasty habit, Potter?"

"My wife, on numerous occasions," the Gryffindor answered mildly. "But like most filthy and nasty habits, it's also highly satisfying." Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a letter. "I have been tasked by Minerva to give you this letter and to bring the response back to her on Sunday. She is rather cross at you for neglecting your correspondence."

"Bully for you. And her." Taking the letter, he stuck it in his robes. "Is there anything else?"

Potter gave him an assessing glance, green eyes gone black and fathomless in the lee of the night. "Have you given any thought of whether or not there is a difference between being a victim of something and being a survivor?"

"As that is apropos of absolutely nothing, no, I have not," he scoffed. _It would have to be one of those nights._

"I was talking about the notion with someone…" Potter started, but Snape interrupted him before he could get going.

"That someone being your mental health counsellor." His drawl was deliberately snide.

"As a matter of fact, yes." Potter was unfazed. "Incidentally, you set off three of my guard wards, and whatever cologne you've taken to wearing gave your location away when you moved behind the strand of aspens."

"Aren't we the observant one in our old age?"

Again, there was that level look. "I'm an Auror with plenty of enemies, not a feckless idiot. At this point, 'constant vigilance' might as well be tattooed on my forehead."

"Aurors and feckless idiots are not mutually exclusive categories," Snape shot back, wondering what it would take to rattle the boy.

"True enough. As I was saying, I was speaking to my counsellor about how labels—even if they are self-applied—can radically affect how we view our circumstances. Being a victim carries with it such a negative connotation, don't you think?"

"You are labouring under severe delusions if you think that I have any wish to discuss this nonsense with you, Potter."

"Then why are you still standing here? I'm not blocking your path to the door." He took a further step away from the door, something mocking in his posture. "No answer?"

"Oh, let me see if I can guess where you are going with all this puerile philosophy," he said in a low snarl. "Like you, I should think of myself as a survivor, rather than a lowly victim. Survivors having so much more power and agency, of course. Am I correct? May I go in now?"

"And here you said that you've given it no thought… which are you, Snape? A victim or a survivor?"

Wordless rage flared bright and hot within him, pushing him forward until he was standing boot-to-boot with the other man. _He has no right, none at all! I have survived more things than he's ever had nightmares about, and how I choose to live my life is none of his business!_ "And tell me, Potter, how is being a survivor working out for you? How's your golden little existence going?"

Emotion flashed through Potter's gaze. "At the moment, it's all rather a mess, as you well know. But that doesn't mean it's not worth it. Regardless of how things go with my wife, our relationship has still given me a family. Given me love and a future. Our children… they are the best parts of Gin and me, and I would gladly slay dragons—or dark lords—for them."

Some of the angry sentiment ebbed out of the man's continence, and his next words held a conciliatory note. "What do you have, Snape? More importantly, what do you want? _Illegitimi non carborundum_."

"Don't let the bastards grind you down? Who taught you that horrid parody of proper Latin?" His sneer was reflexive and weak, he knew. _What future do I have to look forward to?_ he thought, Potter's words evoking feelings that had been growing within him for the last several months.

Potter pressed on. "Hermione taught it to me, of course. She then subjected me to a lecture on the phrase's origins, its incorrectness, and what exactly an aphorism is."

"And are you finished lecturing me?"

"Not quite." A gimlet gleam in his eyes recalled something of Dumbledore at his worst. "Pull your head out of your arse, man. It's unbecoming."

Potter dropped his fag to the ground and Vanished it. With a quick turn, he mounted the steps of the carriage and left Snape standing in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all the lovely readers who took the time to comment, kudo and bookmark- I appreciate it! 
> 
> An aphorism is one of those annoying little pithy comments that unfortunately contain a truth- think "if it ain't broke, don't fix it." Much love to the late, great Dr Mintek, who taught me far more than the English minutia listed on the class syllabus.


	4. Flying Blind

_20 September 2007_

Hermione tried not to wince at the unabashed exuberance of the students crowded around the breakfast table. While she wasn't quite reaching for the hair of the dog—one shared bottle of red did not make for a hangover—the racket was loud enough to be uncomfortable. Foregoing her usual tea for plain water, she sipped at the cool glass and fell into the role of observer.

Harry was in his element, his easy, crooked grin in place as he answered the flood of questions directed at him from the rest of the table. They could have eaten breakfast in the private compartment, as Snape was doing, but Hermione had reckoned that her best friend could do with a spot of hero worship; that the manoeuvre also scored her some goodwill with the students and kept her away from a certain black-clad figure were merely incidental bonuses.

In an amusing twist, the students were blatantly uninterested in any talk of Harry's current role as an Auror or their previous conflict with Voldemort. Rather, the conversation had centred solely on Quidditch strategy. It provoked a strong sense of déjà vu—how many Saturday mornings had begun the same way?—but the topic allowed Hermione to concentrate on the reactions of her charges rather than the actual words.

Having taught them since their second year, Hermione was quite fond of the lot of them. Of the eight students, she knew the Ravenclaw and Slytherin students the best; they were some of her top Charms pupils, and she had spent a fair amount of time tutoring them during her office hours.

Jonathan Burke, a Slytherin, was a lanky beanpole of a lad, possessing a quick wit and tongue; thankfully his personality was nothing resembling Draco Malfoy's... or Snape's, for that matter. Likewise, his housemate, Emma Zabini, was charming, if a tad quiet at times.

Eyeing the girl's subdued posture, Hermione deduced that she was either not a morning person or not a fan of Quidditch. When Zabini met her gaze over the length of the table and rolled her eyes, Hermione guessed the latter.

Switching her attention over to the two Ravenclaw students, Hermione had to hold back her own eye roll; both students were absolutely Quidditch crazy and were endeavouring to explain some sort of tandem dive they had come up with to an interested Harry. Jacob Smith-Ellingsworth's rather loud and pedantic explanation was being drowned out by the back-and-forth argument of Colin Benedict—who had been the Hufflepuff Quidditch Captain—and Amina Patel, the former Gryffindor Seeker.

"Oi!" Jonathan Burke finally exclaimed, cutting through the din. "Come off it, Jacob, the only way you are going to successfully explain that move is to demonstrate it… assuming you can without breaking limbs. Or brooms."

"Which I highly doubt," Emma Zabini added, a smile lessening the sting of the comment.

Amina Patel let out a cackle. "You certainly couldn't when you played us last year!"

"That was last year. We were still perfecting it," Smith-Ellingsworth retorted with a grumble. "Genius doesn't happen overnight, don't you know..."

"Sir," Rebecca Mulligan, the second Ravenclaw said, addressing Harry, "would you be willing to come out to the pitch with us this morning? Then we could properly show you, and I bet you'd have loads of advice for us!"

Harry sent her a faintly sheepish glance. "Professor Granger and I have plans, actually…"

Hermione interrupted before the students could collectively target her with their hangdog pleading. "Thankfully, Professor Granger still has some marking to finish, so some time on the Quidditch Pitch this morning won't be an issue."

"Right, then. The pitch it is," Harry confirmed amongst cheering. "I don't know about advice, but I can show you all some of the moves that I learned from Victor Krum, at least."

"Brilliant," Colin Benedict exclaimed, rubbing his hands together. "Hey, do you think we could get enough people together to have a friendly scrimmage?"

"I don't see why not," Rebecca Mulligan mused, a blush suddenly streaking across her face. "I… uh, spoke with one of the Beauxbatons Chasers last night, and I'd bet he'd be keen on playing us."

"That's not all he's keen for," snarked Sean Davies, the other Gryffindor. "Your heated glances in Transfiguration nearly seared my poor toad into _cuisses de grenouille_."

Mulligan ignored the commentary. "We've enough people here for our side…"

"How do you figure that?" Davies asked, smirking. "I don't play. Neither does Emma or Charlotte. Even with Mr Potter, you are still short one."

Harry looked at her with a wicked grin. "Care to play, Professor?"

"Absolutely not," she answered firmly, suppressing a smile. "You know I don't enjoy flying, and I'm certainly not going to spend a part of my birthday weekend on a broom playing Quidditch. Besides, someone should be on the ground to pick up the pieces."

"Hear, hear," muttered Emma Zabini.

"Bollocks, then we are short by one…" Colin Benedict said with a groan.

"Language, Mr Benedict," Hermione replied automatically.

"Sorry, Professor. Rebecca, do you think your Chaser would play on our side?"

"What fun is that?" Amina Patel interjected. "I've been hearing all week about how smashing the Beauxbatons teams are, and if we are going to try and beat them, it better be all on us or we'll never hear the end of it."

"Sean? Charlotte? Emma?" Colin questioned hopefully. "Hogwarts pride?"

"You don't want me playing, trust me," Charlotte Payton said. "Not if you want to win, at least." The two others murmured an agreement as the door to the compartment swung open, revealing Snape.

The room went silent for a moment before Jonathan Burke spoke up. "Perfect timing, as ever, Headmaster."

"Why," Snape asked rhetorically, "do I have the sneaking sensation that my timing is anything but perfect?"

Burke was undaunted. "You see, sir, we've decided to organize a friendly scrimmage with Beauxbatons. However, we find ourselves short one player."

"And so you are proposing that I be the solution to that shortage?" Snape drawled.

"Of course, sir. You've come out and played with the Slytherins more than a time or two, and you did say that it was of the utmost importance to represent Hogwarts and the UK in the best fashion possible. What better way, in this case, then by the Headmaster himself?"

"Don't lay it on too thick, Mr Burke." For a moment, Snape's black eyes swept the room, taking in variously excited—and not—expressions. "Very well. If needs must, I shall play. You know the rules, however."

Burke grinned. "Yes, sir. You only play Beater."

Snape gave a sharp nod, focusing on Harry. "And I suppose this morning shall mark a return to your glory days of Seeker?"

Harry shrugged, not fazed by the dark glower. "That depends. What position does everyone else play?"

"Chaser," Colin Benedict answered promptly and then began pointing at his fellow students. "Burke is our Keeper, of course, with those long ape arms of his, and Jacob and Rebecca are fellow Chasers…" He trailed off, seeing a possible problem.

"I'm a Seeker," Amina said somewhat apologetically. "I don't really have the build to play anything else, but I'll give it a go."

"No need," Harry said diplomatically. "I can play Beater with the Headmaster in a pinch. Besides, I've heard excellent things about Miss Patel from Professor Longbottom."

The girl brightened even as Snape's expression soured. "Won't this be fun?"

* * *

It had taken almost an hour to settle matters, and by the time Hermione had made her way out to the pitch, the sun was high and it was pleasantly warm. She found herself in a far better mood; apparently, all she'd needed to cheer up was an evening with Harry, venting her spleen.

Taking a seat in the stands with Davies, Zabini, and Payton, she scanned the cerulean sky for her best friend. He was sitting comfortably on his broom, gesturing at something with Benedict and Burke. The sunlight glinted off his glasses, but she thought that she could see him smiling. _Good_ , she thought with affection. _Harry needs to have a bit of uncomplicated fun for a change._

For all that he'd been her rock the previous night, it had been painfully clear how unhappy he was. She couldn't imagine how bad things had to have gotten for him to contemplate tearing apart his family; Ginny and the kids had always been his top priority. And as for Ginny…

_I just don't get it. She has everything, and Harry would do just about anything to make her happy. But it's never enough!_

It had been a long time since she and Ginny had been close. Although they had spent a lot of time around each other following the Battle of Hogwarts, any true friendship that might have developed was dashed by Ginny's continual low-level jealousy of she and Harry's relationship. Despite both of them attesting that there was nothing going on between them and there had never been, Ginny was still resentful of their tight bond.

For a while, it hadn't mattered all that much. She and Ron had started dating, and that buffer kept Ginny from getting too catty. They all began building the foundations of their adult lives, and almost a year after the end of the war, Harry had proposed to Ginny. Life had been less smooth for Hermione; her parents had been none to pleased with her after she'd restored their memories, and any maturity that Ron had gained seemed to be dissolving quickly.

Matters had bubbled over at Harry and Ginny's wedding. Hermione's parents had left early in a huff—she'd never learned the reason why—and so she'd gone looking for Ron and a spot of comfort. _And boy did I find him!_ she remembered, anger still coursing through her despite the intervening years. She and Molly had walked into a back bedroom at the Burrow to find Lavender Brown busy sucking Ron off. If it hadn't had been so hurtful, the expression of utter horror on his face would have been comical.

Molly had reacted first, sending out a pair of hexes that had made it highly unlikely that either Ron or Lavender would be enjoying similarly carnal activities in the near future. However, the ensuing row had made the cover of the _Daily Prophet_ and had neatly imploded the friendship between Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny.

Naturally, Ron had a million excuses for his behaviour—mainly that Hermione didn't pay enough attention, and she nagged him half to death—and while Ginny had taken his side, Harry had not. He had flatly refused to speak to Ron; in his mind, it was bad enough that he had cheated on Hermione, but to do it at his and Gin's wedding pushed it into the realm of unforgivable.

Deciding that discretion was the better part of valour, Hermione had spent the next year in Australia trying to mend her relationship with her parents. She hadn't been successful, but the time away from England had seemingly allowed Harry and Ginny to put their own nacent marriage to rights. Eventually, Harry and Ginny had the boys, and Hermione had first gone into Charms research and then eventully accepted the teaching position at Hogwarts.

An excited burst of noise broke into her wandering thoughts, and Hermione jerked her head up from the stack of papers to see a large group of Beauxbatons students take to the pitch.

"I suppose we'd better start paying attention," Davies remarked with a sigh, putting aside a thick history book with clear regret.

"Heaven forbid they not have a cheering section…" Zabini agreed sarcastically.

"Oh, but look how pretty the Beauxbatons uniforms are," Charlotte Payton enthused. "Such a lovely light blue. I had a blouse like that once..."

"I thought that this was supposed to be a friendly match. How come they got all kitted up so fancy?"

"Well, they are French. Don't they like to dress up?"

The Hogwarts side did appear a touch rag-tag, Hermione had to admit, given that all the students were in their Saturday morning finest. Snape seemed to agree because when the team landed next to the stands for a final chat, he changed all their jumpers to a dark green with a quick flick of the wand.

"Green, sir?" Amina Patel asked plaintively, picking at her sleeve.

"If you play for a Slytherin Headmaster, you will do so in green, Miss Patel." Snape slanted a glance at Harry. "And do you also take issue with my sartorial choice, Mr Potter?"

"Not at all. I have it on good authority that I look good in green. Don't you agree, Professor Granger?"

"It complements your colouring quite nicely," she replied dryly, holding back a smile.

"Mr Benedict, do you have any final words of wisdom?" Snape asked, disregarding Hermione and Harry's by-play.

"Sir?" the Hufflepuff questioned.

"You are the most recent Quidditch Captain in the group, are you not?"

"Uhh… yeah. I guess. Okay, then..." He paused, a little flustered. "Yeah, so here's what we are going to do: play it conservative for the first fifteen minutes or so. I want to see how good they are and how well they communicate with each other. Remember, they all play on different teams, too, so we share that disadvantage. When I give the go-ahead, I want the Headmaster and Mr Potter to make a hard defensive push—I want you to go to town on those bludgers and really harass their Chasers. At the same time, Amina, I want you to feint straight across the field like you've seen the Snitch. Make it good, and see how many of them you can draw offsides; in the meantime, we'll see if we can start racking up some points. If that all goes to hell… well, Jonathan, as Keeper, it'll be your chance to shine. From there we'll have to adjust as we go. Any questions?"

At the round of negative head shakes Benedict grinned and stuck his hand into the centre of the circle. "Right then, Hogwarts on three…" Everyone gamely stuck a hand in, even Snape.

"Hogwarts!" the group shouted and then leapt on their brooms.

Benedict and the Beauxbatons Captain met at the centre of the field to discuss rules with the referee while the rest of the team got into positions. To her surprise, Snape only flew a couple of tight circles before descending again. Landing next to her on the stands, he made quick work of unbuttoning his outer robes and vest. Running an irritated hand through his dishevelled shoulder-length hair, he addressed Charlotte Payton.

"Miss Payton, do you have any spare hair elastics?"

The girl giggled and patted her own long blond braid. "Yes, sir. How many do you need?"

"Two, if you would." While she rummaged through her bag, Snape neatly folded up the vest and robe, placing it on the bench. Leaning over Hermione, Payton handed the Headmaster two bright pink elastics.

"I hope you don't mind the colour, sir. It's all I've got left."

With a deft snap, Snape secured his hair into a queue and began to braid it back. "I'll survive, never fear." He smirked at his next words. "Besides, I have it on good authority that I look good in pink."

Hermione couldn't hold back a snort. "Who told you that bald-faced lie?"

"Dolores Umbridge."

The statement was patently ridiculous, but it made her laugh. Combined with the sunshine, the humour robbed her of the lingering and persistent anger; Hermione found that she could only muster up a touch of her normal sarcasm. _I am so tired of being mad at him. I just want one thing that isn't a fight.._. "Well, be gone with you, Headmaster, or we'll lose the match. _Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus_."

"Always with the terrible Latin," he groused, picking up both his bat and broom.

"It's the school motto," Hermione retorted, only mildly indignant.

" _Superbia in proelia_ , Professor Granger." With that, he suddenly leapt skyward, streaking towards the waiting players like a falcon on the hunt. When he reached the group, he hung neatly in the air for a moment before pointedly mounting his broom.

"Oh, cool. I've never seen anyone fly like that…" Charlotte Payton breathed, appearing a tad awestruck.

"And it was oh so subtle," Hermione added, still fighting the urge to chuckle.

"A deeply subtle man, our Headmaster," Emma Zabini agreed, mouth quirking with her own attempted effort to not laugh.

"Indeed."

After a moment, Sean Davies broke the silence. "So what does superbia in whatever mean, anyway?"

"It's a Latin Muggle football motto, 'Pride in Battle.' Manchester City, if I remember it correctly," Hermione explained.

"Makes sense," Zabini said, nodding.

"Not really," Davies argued.

"The Headmaster is from Manchester or at least urban Lancashire," Hermione informed the lad, who looked properly abashed at that bit of gossip.

"He's from Manchester? Really? I thought he was a southerner like the rest of us… I didn't even know they let people from Manchester into Slytherin."

Zabini slanted him a hard glare. "Slytherin isn't that backward, Sean. Besides, Manchester isn't exactly the uncivilized hinterland, especially given that Hogwarts is located somewhere in the wilds of northern Scotland."

"Yeah, but Manchester? It's almost as bad as being from Liverpool…"

A loud whistle blast broke into his diatribe, and the match finally began.

* * *

Forty-five minutes later, Hogwarts had emerged victorious. Hermione was pleased to note just how well the students had played together. While the Beauxbatons side had possessed more talent, their players had not meshed well, each focusing on making the best individual move rather than ones benefiting the team as a whole.

Harry was surrounded by a throng of curious students—even here, he couldn't quite escape his reputation, it seemed—but as he was still enjoying himself, she let him be. Leaving the stands for the centre of the pitch, she scanned the milling crowd for Snape. Finally sighting him speaking with the referee, Hermione strolled over.

The ref was a bluff, hearty man, with the beginnings of a bald spot thinning his dark blonde hair; he and Snape were conversing in what sounded like rapid German. The man let out a loud guffaw as she approached, and she was startled to see Snape smile easily in return. Just as she reached the men, someone bumped into her side with a broom, and she stumbled.

Arm shooting out, Hermione snagged the nearest thing to hand—in this case, Snape's bare forearm. He steadied her, and Hermione froze, the unaccustomed closeness short-circuiting her brain for the space of several heartbeats.

At some point during the match, he had rolled up the sleeves of his oxford shirt, and the smooth skin was hot under her palm, muscles tensing slightly. He looked altogether different in that moment; without the concealing billow of robes, he was lean and lithe, the sweat-dampened shirt doing nothing to mask a rather fine form. More than that, the change in hairstyle had also seemingly altered the planes of his face. Sharp cheekbones suddenly balanced out his Roman beak of a nose, the symmetry set off by the dark velvet brown of his eyes.

Eyes sparkling with mirth and pale skin flushed by sun and exertion, he did not resemble anything like the ferocious and fearsome spy and professor of her youth, nor the stern and staid Headmaster of the last decade.

He was simply a man.

Standing close enough to be his shadow, Hermione felt her body react to that knowledge, adrenaline and something more ephemeral rocketing through her.

Then the moment was over, and she found herself hastily thrusting his folded robes and vest at him.

"You left these in the stands," she muttered and turned swiftly away. _Run!_ yelped an internal voice. _Run as fast as you can!_

Hermione legged it for the safety of Harry.

* * *

"Now there's a pretty little _Fräulein_ ," Johan Heidenreich remarked.

"Hardly," Snape responded, still mulling over the befuddled and baffled look that Granger had given him before scuttling away. "She is not only one of my _professorin_ , but a former student."

"Ahhh," the German said. "And what exactly does she teach?"

"Charms," he answered and saw the other man's gaze fill with amusement again.

"Appropriate for one who is quite _charmant_ herself."

"If you have a liking for temperamental, know-it-all harridans, perhaps. Now tell me, Doktor Heidenreich, have you improved the stability of your Wolfsbane Potion since the last time we exchanged letters?"

"Funny you should ask that…"

* * *

It had been fun, flying around like a bat out of hell and hitting things very, very hard. It had been even more enjoyable to spend several hours debating potions with someone who was not only an equal in the field but quite possibly his better.

Johan Heidenreich was a German-Swiss researcher, and he and Snape had written back and forth for several years prior to the return of the Dark Lord. At the same time that matters had been devolving for Snape, Heidenreich had left Germany for Africa, and later South America; their correspondence had faltered, and each had not even known the other was still alive until they were introduced following the match.

 _How is that for a fortuitous coincidence?_ Snape mused. _And he'll be here for the next several months… all the better for my upcoming projects_.

Letting himself into the main carriage of the Express, he stopped and listened, but the car was completely silent. _Perfect_ , he thought. _The students are off cavorting about, Granger and Potter have disappeared to Merlin only knows where, and I've finally a bit of privacy._

Shaking out wrinkles in his robe, he caught the tell-tale crinkle of Minerva's letter in the pocket. _Bollocks. I've not even read the blasted thing. I might as well do and call her before she makes a trip down here herself._

He read the lengthy missive while fixing a pot of tea. It was precisely as he expected—a thinly veiled interrogation about events and happenings—but Snape was relieved to note that the letter had no questions concerning Granger. _Perhaps she doesn't know about our little tiff_ , he considered, adding a splash of milk to the earl grey. _Well, only one way to find out…_

With a moue of disgust, he activated the charm on the painting. It was a handy invention, he had to admit, but he was also sceptical of just how secure it was. Still, it was far less messy and inconvenient than using the Floo Network.

As the colours sharpened, Snape wondered idly where Granger had gotten the notion of enchanting paintings in such a manner. That, at least, had been rather unique, and quite unlike her. _But a more pedantic essayist I have never read_ , he thought, recalling some of her longer and more painful Potions essays.

"Hello, Minerva," he stated, still somewhat uncomfortable with talking in such a fashion.

"Do my eyes deceive me? Is that my long-lost Potions Professor finally making an appearance? And here I had feared that you were dead." Minerva's voice was both affectionate and sarcastic.

"It's been two weeks, woman. And I have written."

She sent him a gimlet glare. "Postcards, Severus, may serve as proof of life, but are manifestly not the same as letters." Her words trailed off as she took in his casual appearance. "My goodness… my eyes must really be deceiving me. I don't think I've seen you so stripped of clothes as you are since the last time I had to roust you out of bed in the middle of the night. I haven't interrupted something... important, have I?"

He let her sly words hang in the air like a malodorous scent. "Must you be so ham-handed with your innuendo, Minerva? It's as if you've never been exposed to the finer aspects of adult conversation. Moreover, as I called you, I would hardly do it at an inconvenient time, now would I?"

"And one would think that after all these years you would learn to recognize when a Gryffindor is trying to wind you up…" She gave him a once-over that on any other woman would be considered indecently bawdy. "Incidentally, you look rather dashing with your hair tied back and those horribly stuffy robes gone. Almost… piratical, if I do say so."

"I'd rather you didn't," Snape muttered, fighting the urge to snatch up his robe and throw it on. "Given that you've known me since I was eleven, this conversation is mildly horrifying."

She huffed in exasperation. "It has been a very long time since you were eleven, boyo. And the only thing horrifying in this conversation is your continued prudishness. Now, if you weren't up to a spot of fun, what have you been up to?"

Snape pondered the question a moment, hoping that he was only imagining the subtle sexual inference in her phrasing. The woman was ham-handed… until she wasn't. "Quidditch," he answered succinctly. "I believe you know that Potter is visiting for the weekend?" At her nod, he went on. "The students wrangled him into a playing a match against Beauxbatons. As we were short a player, I also participated."

"You played Quidditch with Mr Potter?" Her tone was politely disbelieving.

"I played Quidditch with our students, thus ensuring a Hogwarts victory. That one of them happens to be a _former_ student is of very little consequence," he corrected.

"Hmph. And just how good are the Beauxbatons players? Maxime does love to go on about how many professional players they graduate every year."

"They're not bad. But they're French. Altogether too flashy," Snape said with a shrug. "I was impressed with Colin Benedict, I will say. I had him Captain, and he did a solid job of managing things despite little practice or warning."

Minerva smiled at that. "He's a lovely lad. And how did your Keeper do?"

"Brilliant, as ever. Blocked all but seven shots on fifty-three attempts." He hesitated before adding. "Patel caught the Snitch in rather dramatic fashion."

"Gryffindors have always made the best Seekers," Minerva teased. "So was Mr Potter playing Beater or Chaser?"

"Beater, and only adequately."

"Oh, you poor dear. Was he an infringement on your magnificence as a Beater? Does he still have his head, or did you managed to knock it off with a well-timed shot?"

He glared at her. "If I wanted to murder someone, it wouldn't be in front of a pitch full of witnesses, now would it? Besides, if I harmed as much as a hair on Potter's sainted head, I'm sure that Granger would hunt me down and subject me to a slow and terrible death."

Minerva's expression turned pensive. "She is rather protective of those she loves, isn't she? I've always thought it a pity that the two of them never had a spark between them."

Snape snorted, inwardly surprised at the opening that she had given him. "Are you sure about that? I stumbled upon them last night curled up on a bench together, and from where I stood they seemed rather… close."

"Don't you dare start a rumour like that, Severus Tobias Snape, or I'll be the one hunting you down and subjecting you to a slow and terrible death." From the sharpness of her gaze, he could tell she meant it, and he wondered just what rubbish had been in the gossip papers recently; Granger wasn't the only one fiercely protective of those she loved.

After a beat, Minerva continued. "I asked her about it, once. She said it would be like snogging a brother, and Harry felt the same."

"As fascinating as this particular tangent is, I have no wish to discuss the romantic escapades of former students and current professors. Shall we change the subject?" Snape asked, reckoning that he had gotten about as much out of Minerva as he could without making her suspicious.

"Oh, very well, then. How are the rest of the students doing?"

* * *

For the next quarter of an hour, they spoke on more neutral topics, and Snape found himself relaxing for the first time in weeks. For all that she could be a thorn in his side, Minerva was also a stalwart friend, and he had missed her company more than he had realized.

He had relaxed enough, as a matter of fact, that he fell neatly into her trap.

"…and how is it having Hermione back as your student?" she asked simply.

"What do you mean?" he queried without thinking.

An elegant brow rose. "I mean, how is it having Hermione observing your master-level class?"

From her expression, Snape could tell that she already knew the answer to that question and that she was not ignorant to the fact that he and Granger had fought. _Blast. I should have just written!_

"She's not observing either of my classes. Nor," he added hastily, "has she expressed any interest in doing so, or I would have permitted it. Naturally."

The gambit didn't work. "And why pray tell, has she not expressed any interest? Could it perhaps have to do with a certain argument that occurred on the way down?"

When it was clear that Snape's only answer would be his silence, she went on. "You know, when you suggested that we consider hiring her for the Charms position, I took that as proof that you had adjusted your thinking when it came to her. That you had moved on and grown up. But now I'm left wondering if you did so only because you knew that I'd push for Hermione and doing so yourself was an easy way out…"

Snape kept his face carefully blank. In truth, he had only brought up Granger as a candidate because he knew that Minerva would. Besides which, the only other possibility for the position who wasn't also an octogenarian was Luna Lovegood… and as Sybil Trelawney was still in residence and ably fulfilling the crazy quotient of the Castle, she had not been an option.

"Severus, have you even bothered to examine any of her projects or publications?"

"I have read plenty of her papers, Minerva, I assure you."

Standing up from the desk with a swish of tartan and temper, she glared into the portrait. "Recent ones?"

His own temper arrived on a wave of defensiveness. "No. Not recent ones, but I hardly need to as I graded her sodding essays since the age of eleven. The only thing good that I can say is that her papers were generally grammatically correct, and would nominally be on the assigned topic. Other than that they were a complete waste of my time. I saw nothing but bloated, regurgitated tripe that in no way could pass for original thinking or quality work. Perhaps her approach might have passed muster in your class, but it certainly wasn't good enough in mine!"

"Sometimes, Severus, you are a daft, closed-minded, bastard of a man." Her eyes glimmered with an unspoken sentiment, and he felt his stomach uneasily twist in response. "It's a bit rich to call her student papers bloated, regurgitated tripe when yours were equally as bad! How many times did I ask for ten inches and get a bloody scroll instead? Go read one of her recent papers and then come back to me and spout that nonsense. I dare you!"

With an angry flick, Minerva closed the connection.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone that continues to read and comment- it means the world to me!
> 
> One random note for going forward- there will be no wonky rendering of the various European accents in this story. If there is one thing I hate more than having to read accents, it's having to write one. Thus, as our friends are all using a translation charm, none of that foolishness is necessary. My apologies if you were looking forward it :)
> 
> 'Cuisses de Grenouille' are the French version of tasty, tasty fried frog legs. Mmmm...


	5. Dining on a Sour Herb of Grace

_Chapter 5- Dining on a Sour Herb of Grace_

_24 September 2007_

Snape found himself outside yet again, restlessly prowling about the grounds as the sky deepened into the mauves and plums of twilight. He had spent three days stewing over Minerva's challenge; the Scotswoman had an enormous blind spot when it came to her cubs—not unlike his own to the Slytherins, he'd admit—but he had no appetite to prove her assertion wrong. Furthermore, he didn't understand why Minerva found it so important that he suddenly change his views on the Gryffindor.

He wasn't wrong. Not about this, at least. It wasn't as if he thought that badly of Hermione Granger. She just wasn't, as some might say, his cup of tea. Yes, she annoyed him, but that wasn't exactly unique; he found most people to be utterly exasperating. And if his assessment of her had been a tad bit harsh, it was not a reflection on the woman's moral fibre or character – it had simply been his view of her as a scholar.

Snape could, if pressed, even admit to admiring a few of her traits. He did not argue about her bravery during the war; any fool could see that she was the reason that Potter had made it to the Final Battle alive. She was methodically prepared and organized for anything and everything. Her charms work, while not quite up to the same level of Flitwick, was still solid. Likewise, her teaching methods were good, and he rather imagined that with another couple of years of experience she'd be a real asset to Hogwarts.

But he had known her since she was eleven. Yes, Granger was a hard worker. Yes, she was smart… yet most of her success had come from sheer bloody-minded stubbornness and a prodigious talent for memorization, not actual brilliance. The woman had excelled because she would persist in an endeavour long past the point where others would abandon it; he had seen very little evidence of creativity in her thinking.

He was going to have to do something, however, because the silence between him and Minerva couldn't hold.

Their relationship was a complicated one. It always had been, dating back from his student days, and the events of both wars had only muddied the waters further. Minerva had made his life a living hell when he'd ostensibly turned traitor and killed Dumbledore; while he'd understood her wrath, it had deeply hurt that she'd so completely turned her back to him. He had hated her, or enough near enough to it, during his first year as Headmaster.

Nevertheless, it had been Minerva who had saved his life in the Shrieking Shack. She had protected him until he'd been well enough to do it on his own and stoutly refused to let the Board of Governors sack him during his recovery. At first, he'd held on to his anger, but a blind man could have seen how the guilt was eating away at her. By the time Snape had been released from hospital, he found that more than anything he wanted to forgive her. Wanted to move on… wanted to live a life not defined by rage and loss.

For the most part, he had. It wasn't easy, shedding the layers of hatred, defences and self-loathing, and it certainly wasn't easy to let himself trust her—hell, himself—after all that had happened.

 _Fuck it all_ , he thought for the thousandth time. _Why, on this thing above all others, did Minerva have to push matters?_

 _Why was this point about Granger so important to her_?

Without meaning to, he found himself back in the small clearing where he had overheard Potter and Granger's conversation. Sitting down on the bench, Snape pondered his options.

_You can let this stretch out further and be miserable, but clearly, this one is up to you to fix. The only real solution is to swallow your pride, go read a couple of articles, and then apologize to Minerva._

_So… tomorrow to the library; they are bound to have some of the more recent publications._

_Bollocks, but I hate being wrong…_

* * *

Snape waited until Granger was safely away teaching her class before venturing into the Beauxbatons stacks. It wouldn't due to get caught, after all. Emerging with her two most recent peer-reviewed articles, he slunk back to his compartment to read.

The first publication was in one of the more respected interdisciplinary journals and was about her development of several memory charms and their use in therapeutic situations. Flipping it open, he began to read.

_'Remembralls may be a commonplace device for the forgetful, but what lies at their centre is a complex charm that is anything but ordinary. Likewise, the story behind the creation of the Remembrall is a fascinating and moving tale of how one of Britain's most famous Victorian-era witches fought to preserve her fading memory after a catastrophic accident. In this article, I not only detail the development of the Remembrall but also present several ways of reworking the charms to treat some of the more prevalent mental health issues plaguing the wizarding populace following the civil unrest of the Voldemort Conflict. Finally, in coordination with Healer Augustus Pye, I present the preliminary findings of their use after a six-month controlled study at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.'_

Taking inspiration from several run-ins with a Boggart, Granger had re-worked the animating charm of the Remembrall to present the miniaturized image of what a person feared the most. Used in concert with the Healers at St. Mungo's, it allowed for the patient and healer to best determine what traumatic events to focus on first; the sixth-month trial showed great promise in combating symptoms of PTSD and other general anxiety disorders.

The work was utterly brilliant. Really, there was no other way to put it; the notion was both creative and practical, and quite frankly, he probably could have used on during his own recovery.

Feeling vaguely sick, he picked up the second paper –"Dark or Archaic? A Reconsideration of Modern Moralities Through Charms Development"—and began to skim the article.

_'The labelling of certain magics, whether it be potion, charm or hex, as 'dark' often results in that particular magic becoming taboo and thus falling into disuse. Many would argue that this treatment is well deserved as it serves to protect the general public from dangerous spells. But in this paper, I will not only argue that this is not the case, but that in doing so we are losing valuable opportunities to understand and debate how our modern moralities and sensibilities are evolving...'_

Tracing the development and history of three different defensive charms, Granger had outlined two main points. First, most magic labelled 'dark' was not inherently so but simply old, reflecting the time and context that it was created in. Likewise, while knowledge itself was not necessarily dangerous, it was highly problematic to merely label something as 'dark' and forget about it. Not only did that approach severely curtail the development of new magics, but doing so halted any healthy reflection within a society of what was considered 'good', 'bad,' or 'dark.'

It was a point he had argued many times in private, although never to Granger…

Sometime in the last ten years, she had grown up, and he had totally missed it. Moreover, if he'd read her papers without seeing the name attached, he'd be highly intrigued by the mind that had written them.

 _Well_ , he thought a good deal later, after taking a hard appraisal of his own behaviour over the last month. _I've made a right arse of myself on several fronts, haven't I?_

* * *

Minerva wasn't in the office—or chose to ignore the summoning of the painting—when he tried to speak to her later that evening. Indeed, it wasn't until Friday morning that he was successful in reaching her.

Her expression was cooly dispassionate as she glanced up from a stack of papers.

Clearing his throat, he said, "I'm sorry. You were right."

With a sigh, the Scotswoman removed her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Oh, Severus… This isn't a matter of being right and wrong."

"Then what is it?" he asked quietly, some of the frustration and disquiet bubbling into his manner. "Help me here, Minerva, because I find myself utterly lost."

She stared abstractly at the surface of the large black desk before finally answering. "Things change and so do people; hopefully they grow as time marches on. In the first two years after the Final Battle, you took enormous risks, made massive changes. And you were happier for it… but for the last several years you've been stuck in this rut, and as a result, you've closed yourself off to so much of what life has to offer. One can survive, but not live..."

The many ghosts of his past made themselves known, and he could feel the heavy weight of a cold hand pressing down on his shoulder. Dumbledore's voice as he'd knelt in his office. "Only time will tell if you are worthy of forgiveness, Severus…"

Snape had vowed as he'd lain haemorrhaging both blood and memories in the Shrieking Shack that if only he could live, he would be grateful for his lot in life; it had been his lust for power and revenge, after all, that had put him in the camp of the Death Eaters in the first place. And he had been satisfied with the last decade…

"I am thankful for what I have," he whispered eventually, unable to look Minerva in the eye.

"Yes, you have. But you deserve so much more than a life in the shadows."

He couldn't reply to her assertion.

"You need to open yourself up to new things and challenges… I mean really, Severus, your circle of friends consists of a bunch of old, meddling crones stuck in a mouldering pile of stones."

Mustering a shaky retort, he said, "I think that Lucius would take considerable umbrage at being called an old crone…"

Minerva sniffed. "Oh, I have other, more choice adjectives for that one. But the point remains the same. Don't you want more?"

"Why is my view of Hermione Granger so important?" Snape asked in return, hoping that his blunt question would change the topic.

She wasn't fooled by his evasion but answered the question anyway. "Because I think that the two of you are incredibly alike." At his look of disbelief, she continued. "Put your hackles down, lad, and listen to me. You are both painfully brilliant, and far more socially awkward than necessary. Your loyalty and consistency are the stuff of legends. But more than that… you both are lonely."

"I have plenty of friends. I'm not lonely."

"Yes, you are," she argued with some asperity. "Do you really want this to be the rest of your life? And trust me when I say, as fond of her familiar as she is, Hermione isn't keen on turning into a feline-obsessed spinster, either."

Shock and something like disbelief stilled his tongue momentarily. "Are you trying to set us up, Minerva?"

Minerva put her glasses back on and sent him a challenging look. "Would I be so foolish as to try such an impossible task? Let me say only that I do think that you could be friends. Good ones, at that, if you gave her a chance. She's grown up, Severus, and so have you. Take a another risk."

* * *

Although Snape mulled over her words the rest of the day, his mind shied away from the main thrust of Minerva's argument; he entered the dining car feeling unsettled and uncertain. Straightening the cuffs of his dress robes, he hoped that none of his inner turmoil showed. _Of all the nights to have a formal supper and ball…_

A remnant of the Merovingian royal dynasty had come calling to Beauxbatons, and as a result, Madame Maxime was throwing a fête of grand proportions open to both staff and students. While the Hogwarts students would be dining at one of the lower tables, Granger and he would eat at the High Table with what was sure to be pompous and overbearing company.

Briefly, he scanned the students to ensure that all was in order, but came up a head short. "Where is Miss Payton?" he asked, noting belatedly that Granger was also nowhere to be seen.

"Here, sir," Payton replied in what was almost a whisper. Stepping out of the dark of the corridor, the girl stopped, a self-conscious hand raised to her flushed cheek. "As you can see, I've had a bit of a mishap."

And indeed she had. Her normally perfect blonde curls had turned a putrid lime-green, contrasting horribly with both her colouring and that of her dress.

"I was trying to use a charm to change the hue of my dress… but as you can see, it didn't quite work. I must have gotten the pronunciation wrong."

"What charm were you attempting to use?" Granger's voice asked from behind him. Automatically, he turned and then slid out of the way so that she could walk past him to assist the girl.

Unlike Payton, she looked impeccable. He thought her bronze dress perfectly demure until she floated past him in her high heels. It was only then that he registered that the dress, for all intents and purposes, had no back.

Snape couldn't tear his eyes away from that creamy expanse of exposed skin, a sudden, visceral urge to run his hands down the long line of spine overtaking him. He remained hypnotized as she raised her wand and started performing the counter-charms, the muscles of back and shoulder flexing smoothly as she moved her arms. It was a terribly intimate sight and one that aroused an old and possessive hunger in him. Slowly, his gaze refocused, and he started to see something more than her naked skin.

Hermione Jean Granger wasn't perfect; angels weren't singing from down upon high. But it was a damn close thing. For the first time, he saw the whole package. Brains. Beauty. Stubbornness and curiosity. Compassion… _Minerva bloody well lied to me,_ he thought a little desperately _. Because this was a setup if there ever was one!_

Then she stepped back and Charlotte Payton re-appeared, hair restored to its customary glory.

"Are there any other problems, or are we ready to depart?" Granger queried the group crisply. At their head shakes, she turned and gazed at him, clearly expecting some sort of final instructions.

"Go easy on the wine tonight," he all but croaked, unable to come up with anything else. "I know that we are all of age, but the drink here is quite a bit stronger than your usual butterbeer. And make sure you are back to the carriage by two, or you risk not being able to get in due to the security measures."

* * *

For all that the woman next to her strongly resembled Madame Pince, Clotilde Alavaine, the Merovingian _missus dominicus_ , had a surprisingly earthy laugh and temperament. Hermione found herself conversing freely with the woman, fascinated by the bits of history and lore being effortlessly dropped into the discussion.

As yet, the only irritation of the evening was the Headmaster; he had gone nearly silent again. But rather than the petulant and suspicious recalcitrance of the welcoming feast, his reserve was tinged with emotions she could not identify, and it was that fact alone that kept her from kicking him under the table.

 _If I'm going to have to carry the conversation_ , Hermione decided, _then at least we'll speak of topics I find exciting. If all the Charms talk bores him, he can either participate or tune us out. And we'll damn well do it in French!_

* * *

Granger was animated and lively, her interest in the table's discussion clear. In shifting golden candlelight of the hall, she was luminous. Snape felt sick, a hollow, foolish sort of misery of once again dining on a feast of his own hubris. _Dinning on the sour herb of grace, indeed..._

Minerva had pegged him correctly. He was lonely. And Granger—Hermione, he thought, trying the syllables out in his mind for the first time—Hermione was exactly the sort of woman to catch his fancy had he been paying any sort of attention.

Laughing, she shot back a rapid riposte to the general amusement of the table. The translation charm he was using wasn't up to handling the complex academic terms and colloquial bon mots; he hadn't the faintest idea what they were talking about, having lost the thread of conversation ages ago.

 _So_ , he pondered. _Just how much of this entire trip was a setup? I find it highly unlikely that Minerva would have arraigned this solely for my benefit. On the other hand, she does like to meddle…_

The clinking of a spoon on crystal interrupted his thoughts. "It is time for dancing!" Madame Maxine intoned in her deep, basso profundo voice. "First, we shall have our upper staff and guests waltz, and then the floor will be open to all."

Rising along with the rest of the men, he offered his arm to Granger, mentally toasting Minerva for her excellent plotting. "May I have this dance?"

Her response was polite and automatic. "Of course."

As the musicians tuned their instruments, they made their way to the floor. Bowing, they started the first moves of the dance with a dozen other couples. Clasping her right hand in his, Snape placed his other hand lightly on her shoulder blade. _I see why gloves used to be a necessity_ , he thought as his hand encountered the enticing silk of her bare skin, the contact sending a jolt through his system.

Granger flinched as he touched her; it was slight and well hidden, but Snape caught it all the same. _Ahhh, and there is the fatal flaw in Minerva's plan. Granger might be precisely the sort of woman to catch my eye, but the reverse can hardly be true. She certainly didn't get flustered in seeing me in my finest robes, nor do I see her suddenly developing an awareness of my person. If anything...  
_

A flicker of bitter anger flared to life before he firmly snuffed it out. _And that lack of interest is not her fault. It's not as if you've done much to recommend yourself over the years. Be grateful for what you do have, and chalk this up to another lesson learned. Pride cometh before fall, for about the millionth time…_

 _Now_ , he told himself, _concentrate, or you'll roger this up too_.

* * *

In stark contrast to the cooler air of the hall, Snape's hand was warm on her back. Despite that there was nothing offensive in the way his hand was holding her or in his dancing, Hermione was irritated, although she couldn't quite pin down why.

 _Really, do I need to pick just one reason?_ she mused. _It's not as if I don't lack for choices._ Still, there was something in his manner that made her anger feel petty and juvenile. A turbulent sea of emotions continued to lurk just under the surface of his pale skin, and she wished she could decipher what was going on beneath that calm façade.

Finally, she broke the silence, deciding to at least address the obvious. "You know, you're not exactly the village idiot. I would appreciate it if you carried your load of the social conversation rather than leaving it entirely up to me."

Snape hesitated three beats before answering. "Perhaps I was simply listening to someone who knows their subject far better than I."

"Be that as it may, a token effort can still be made."

He inclined his head in agreement. "Indeed. My apologies. However, as my mouth has been getting me into a rather lot of trouble as of late, I thought it prudent to keep it firmly closed."

"Oh, so it's your mouth's fault?" she asked with some astringency, wondering if this was all the apology she would receive for his harsh words at the start of the trip.

The smile that he gave her was dry and did not reach his eyes. "Not completely. My temper and pride played a significant role as well." Leading her into a _fleckerl_ , they spun in carefully orchestrated cohesion. He waited until they re-joined the general circle of the dance before speaking again. "On the Express… you caught me at a particularly bad moment. I was none too pleased to be leaving Hogwarts and had successfully worked myself into a lather over it. However, I should not have said what I did. It was beyond rude, and I do sincerely apologize."

The bluntness of the apology shocked her, even more so when Hermione combined his statement with her memories of that afternoon. "You were having a panic attack," she asserted, the words falling out of her mouth before she had a chance filter them.

He cleared his throat, gaze focused on something past her shoulder. "Yes."

"Well, now I feel like an arse," Hermione said, at a complete loss to come up with anything meaningful.

"No more than I," Snape muttered, twin spots of red appearing on his cheeks. "It has been many years since I've had one, and it took me awhile to figure out what exactly occurred."

"I'm sorry… and thank you for your apology. Likewise, I did not mean to antagonize you with either my presence or conversation."

"You are not my student any longer, nor a child to dismiss outright. Even if you were… well, my behaviour still would have been reprehensible." There was another uncomfortable pause. "I hope that you will also believe me when I say that I do not question your intelligence nor your right to speak your mind. I assure you, Minerva would skin me alive if she thought that I really felt that way."

"And is it purely fear of Minerva that has prompted your apology?" Hermione asked, trying to interject her question with a touch of humour.

"I have a healthy respect for her claws, metaphorical or otherwise," he admitted. "But I also don't wish for us to spend the next year in constant conflict, either, and I do owe you an apology."

They completed the final turns of the dance, him with a bow, and her with a curtsey. "Pax?" Hermione asked.

"Pax," he agreed, and they went back to the head table without speaking on it any further.

* * *

An hour later, Hermione snuck off to the powder room for a bit of a breather, the heat and noise starting to get to her.

_Well, this has certainly been an eventful evening..._

She was inclined to believe Snape's apology—Christ, with that explanation, how could she not?—but only time would tell if their peace would hold. _I hope so_ , she thought. One less thing to fight would be rather nice. His revelation about having a panic attack was quite the surprise; she had never seen any indication of that type of anxiety in him. _Well, you wanted him human, and you certainly got that…_

Vowing to think more about it later, she fished lipstick out of her beaded bag and started to repair the damage to her makeup. Leaning closer to the mirror she stared at her reflection, noting that the back of her dress was dipping perilously close to her derrière. _I need to adjust those charms before I really put on a show…_

With the scars on her chest and arm, she wasn't terribly keen on wearing more traditional sleeveless or low-cut gowns; upon seeing this dress in a shop, Hermione had rejoiced and had bought it without quibbling on the price. It was a wonderful break from the more matronly styles she normally stuck to. While she wasn't exactly embarrassed by her scars, she didn't like to be reminded of them and hated the questions that they inevitably provoked.

 _I bet Snape is covered in scars…_ As the oddly tantalising notion of a naked Snape popped into her head, Hermione recalled the warm feeling of his hand on her shoulder, as well as the sensation of his bare arm under fingers after the Quidditch match. A reflexive shiver ran down her spine. _Why am I thinking of him like this?_ she wondered uneasily. _Clearly, I have been living the celibate life entirely too long!_

A quick flick of the wand later and she had renewed the sticking charm on the dress. After making sure that no one was watching, she gave her bum a little shimmy. _Still, at least I look bloody wonderful tonight…_

"Oh, aren't we just a saucy little minx," a voice cooed, and Hermione gave a startled shriek. Realizing that it was only the mirror, she flipped it the bird.

"That's not polite!" it protested indignantly as a group of girls entered the room in a cloud of overly fruity perfumes and giggles. Making a hasty exit before she could start laughing, Hermione tucked herself into one of the many secluded nooks that lined the hall.

 _Who would have guessed_ , she mused, watching the swirl of the crowd, _when Minerva McGonagall came calling nineteen years ago I would end up here…_

"It's positively magical, isn't it?" a sarcastic voice observed from her right. Hermione only just managed to suppress a second exclamation as Snape slid into view.

"Almost." Moving over a step, she made room for him in the nook. "I was just thinking that had you told me at eleven I would end up dancing the night away in a magical palace in France, I would have called you a madman."

He handed her a glass of champagne. "Had someone told me at this time last year that I'd be banished to a magical palace in France, I too would have called them a madman. But nevertheless, here we are."

"You really didn't want to come on this trip, did you?" Hermione asked softly.

Snape didn't answer right away, and she didn't press, wondering if he would open up.

"No," he eventually confirmed, eyes seeking out the location of each of the Hogwarts students in turn. "I like to control my surroundings, and I long ago tired of surprises. Given that this expedition features both elements in excess, I think you can understand my reluctance to play chaperone."

"I can understand that," she said, thinking about how that fit with what she knew about his life. "I categorically refuse to go camping for similar reasons."

"Ah, yes… Minerva's scheme a few years back to start a scouting troop. The scent of tent canvas supposedly gives you the vapours."

She smirked. "Well, that's what Minerva believes, at least. The months-long camping trip from hell non-with standing, I wasn't a Girl Guide growing up, and I have absolutely no interest in being one as an adult. Hence my refusal."

Snape rubbed his forehead, looking amused. "And you assume that I won't share this pertinent information with her?"

"I'm counting on your inherently gentlemanly nature to refrain from doing so. Barring that, I would be happy to buy your silence with a quick quid pro quo."

"And what would you have to barter at this late date?" Snape drawled, arching a brow and turning towards her.

Something in the way he asked the question made her blush, but she refused to let it fluster her. "An evening," she said loftily.

"An evening…" he repeated, letting the syllables hang in the air, and Hermione belated realized that her words were rife with unintentional innuendo.

"You don't particularly want to be here." She made a sweeping gesture towards the rest of the room, deciding to try and bluster her way out. "Whereas I still find this sort of gathering perfectly charming."

"Do you, now?" _Circe's nickers, but that particular tone should be illegal!_

"Well, if not perfectly charming, then at least tolerable." _How the hell did we get from making apologies to loaded banter?_

"Cut to the chase, Professor. As yet, there has been nothing quick or quid pro quo-y in your proposal, and I'm fast running out of champagne."

"Are you normally this impatient?" she teased.

Snape didn't so much as move a muscle, but that didn't stop Hermione feeling like a very dangerous animal was suddenly stalking her. "You will find, Madame, that with the proper inducement I can be a very patient man indeed."

 _Annnnnd, a point to Snape. Pack it up, or double down? Oh, sod it. Propriety has long since departed this field_... She deliberately licked her lips and had the pleasure of watching his pupils dilate. "I'll be sure to file that away for future reference."

"You do that." His response was nearly a purr.

Hermione stepped forward until there was only a handbreadth of space between them. "As I was saying, you don't particularly want to be here. So, how about I hold the fort, and you head back to the Express for an early evening? I will, of course, make your excuses and ensure that all the students return safely."

"And in return, you expect what?"

"Your silence." Innocently, she let her eyes widen and drift downward, stopping just above his waistline. "Concerning my capabilities with… tents." _Point to me!_

His mouth quirked with perceptive humour at her double entendre. "You drive a hard bargain." Gently, he plucked the empty glass from her hand, his thumb brushing against hers in one slow swipe.

Hermione couldn't help the low chuckle that escaped. "Isn't a hard bargain the best kind?"

"If I answer that, my mouth will surely get me in trouble yet again." Snape's smile matched hers.

"You keep blaming your poor mouth…"

"For good reason, I assure you." He forestalled her rejoinder with a single, imperious arch of his brow. "I accept your offer, madame… on the condition that we leave immediately." Stepping back, he motioned her forward into the bustle of the hall.

 _That's probably for the best. Any more of this and my mouth will be the one getting us in trouble_. "As you wish."

* * *

Four hours later, Hermione let herself into the private compartment to find a sloe-eyed Snape sprawled on the sofa, his dinner jacket and cravat discarded on a chair. Rendered a little breathless, all she could think was that she wouldn't mind coming home to that sight a little more often.

He didn't say anything, just put the journal that he had been reading down on the side table. The familiar cover caught her attention; with a ripple of shock, she saw that it was the latest edition of _Interdisciplinary Magics_ featuring her article on Remembralls.

 _Patient, indeed_ , she thought, her heart breaking into an unfamiliar rhythm.

"Everyone is back on the train."

"Excellent." Snape pulled his wand and activated the final set of security wards with a lazy swish. Rising gracefully, he pulled a small phial from his robes. A few short steps had him standing next to her, and he handed her the warm bottle.

"Sober-Up Potion," he informed her. "Just in case."

"No regrets in the morning, hmmm?" Hermione asked, referring to far more than the alcohol she had consumed.

"Something like that."

"Thank you," she said, wishing for what seemed like the thousandth time that she could better read his expression.

He gave a shallow bow, gaze never leaving her face.

"Good night, then, Headmaster." Hermione started to turn, but his voice stopped her.

"I prefer Severus in private if you don't mind."

"As long as you call me Hermione."

They stared at each other for a long moment, something crackling right below the surface.

"Well, goodnight, Severus," she repeated, deciding discretion being the better part of valour, she might as well retreat.

"Goodnight, Hermione," he replied.

She felt his eyes on her back all the way down the corridor.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at that! Progress! Heads being pulling out of arses and adults acting like adults! Doesn't that just warm your... er, heart?
> 
> As always, I want to thank everyone who took the time to read, comment, or give kudos on this story this past week. It is a singularly brilliant feeling to see something that you've worked rather hard on get such a lovely response.
> 
> The Merovingians were the Frankish dynasty that ruled in France following the fall of the Roman Empire in the 5th century; it's an absolutely fascinating period of history. A 'missus dominicus' is the Latin term for an envoy from said court.
> 
> Ten points to anyone that can correctly decipher the reference behind the title for this chapter.
> 
> Happy Reading!


	6. The Man in the Mirror

_Chapter 6 - The Man in the Mirror_

_24 September 2007_

Snape awoke the next morning feeling more than a little foolish. It was one thing to flirt shamelessly with a woman at a party after drinking a bit much; it was a whole other matter to flirt shamelessly with your subordinate…who also happened to be a former student twenty years younger.

He was also vaguely uncomfortable with the personal secrets that he'd let fly. While an apology had been on the agenda, Snape had not been seeking to spill all the beans in such a fashion. Despite all that, he was sorely tempted to continue their flirtation; or had been, rather, until he had caught sight of himself in the mirror.

He froze, shaving cream covering half of his face. Staring back at him was a dour, disagreeable old man completely at odds with how he felt inside. Snape had never been handsome—at various points in his life he'd been downright ugly—but he'd settled into his forties feeling more comfortable with himself. The two stone he'd put on during his recovery had helped, as well as not living life in imminent danger of death or dismemberment.

But in the harsh light of morning, all he could see was his massive conk of a nose, lank black hair, and skin pale and lined enough to do the mole people credit. There wasn't anything remotely attractive in his features, and the scars on his neck were merely a preview for what covered the rest of his skin. Factoring in the sum of his personal history and personality on top of all that… _Really, what the hell was I thinking? What was Minerva thinking?_

Inasmuch as people liked him, they appreciated him for his deeds and what he could do for them. Even his bonds with Lucius and Minerva, his two closest friends, had been forged by twenty years of shared misery, not some instant like-minded connection.

_So I find her attractive…then what? What happens when she gets to know the real me? And what do I know of Granger, truly? Three days ago, I thought her an annoyance and irritant. Add the complications brought on by her choice of friends—hell, my choice of friends—the difference in age and station, life experiences… there is no possible way this could go anywhere._

_Well, fuck it all. Now what?_

* * *

For once, fate chose not to be a fickle bitch. What should have been an utterly uncomfortable impasse of a morning was saved by the violent onset of illness by the entire Hogwarts contingent. It was a timely distraction, to say the least.

They had all gathered for breakfast in the dining car. Snape had not been surprised to see several of the students sporting what appeared to be world-class hangovers; what had been odd were the three students affected.

That Sean Davies looked greener than a field of shamrocks was no bombshell. But the fact that Emma Zabini and Charlotte Payton also sported similar expressions of woe did make him wonder.

"I believe," he grumbled, pulling out additional vials of Sober-Up Potion, "that I did make a point about watching our alcohol intake last night, did I not?"

Thumping the bottles more loudly than necessary on the table next to his charges, Snape glared at each in turn. Payton and Davies gulped down the bottles at once, but Zabini dithered.

"But, sir," she said, a trembling hand pressed to her pale forehead, "I didn't have anything to drink last night."

The door to the small kitchen suddenly banged open, revealing Madame Gresham carrying a broad tray. "And look what I was able to find at the market: real, honest-to-goodness kippers!"

Zabini made a gagging noise and knocked her chair over in her haste to get out of the room.

"Oh, dear. I take it Miss Zabini does not care for kippers?" Madame Gresham asked, putting the tray on the side table with a look of distress.

Raising his voice to be heard over the sound of the girl vomiting loudly, Snape said, "I think that the kippers are only incidental to her illness."

Putting her toast down slowly, Granger rose. "I'll go check on her."

The resulting silence in the hallways was rather ominous; the only sound at the table was the flatware clinking against the plates. Snape was just taking a sip of tea when Sean Davies spoke.

"Headmaster? I, uh, don't think that the Sober-Up is quite working."

He looked at the boy, who was suddenly more than a little glassy-eyed. "What do you mean, not working? I made the Sober-Up myself. I assure you, if you were suffering from a hangover, you would be much improved."

"Yeah. Not feeling any better. I feel a lot worse, as a matter of fact," he babbled, a sudden sweat beading on his forehead.

"Then I would suggest, Mr Davies, that you follow Miss Zabini's lead and make for your compartment. Professor Granger or I will be along shortly to check on you."

"Yes, sir," he said, bolting for the door.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Snape asked, "Is anyone else feeling unwell?"

Jonathan Burke and Colin Benedict raised hands. "Right. Pack up some breakfast and be off with you until we figure out what's going on."

Granger returned grim-faced. "My diagnostic spells show a rather virulent stomach bug." Noting the half-empty table, she made a face and hit the entire room with a strong disinfecting charm. "Shall I speak with Maxime, or do you want to?"

* * *

Four hours later and it had all gone to shit, quite literally. According to Maxime, sick students and staff were likewise overwhelming the Beauxbatons Infirmary. As expected, Burke and Benedict had joined the ranks of the ill, and Snape had banished everyone to their compartments in hopes of limiting the spread of the virus.

Squinting, he scrutinized a bedraggled lump of ginger root, trying his best to mince it and not his fingers. "Oh, for fuck's sake," he muttered, wondering if his knife was sharp enough and why the blasted thing was refusing to cooperate.

"Problem?" Granger asked, coming up behind him.

"I'm trying to make a fresh cauldron of anti-nausea draught. This blasted ginger is giving me fits, however."

"Severus…" she started and then nudged him back from the steaming cauldron lightly. "How do you feel?"

He froze, switching his focus from work to body. For the first time, he registered the clammy layer of sweat coating him, as well as the conga-line pounding of his head. Slowly, he put the knife down and dumbly Vanished the ruined supplies.

_Oh, fuck me..._

"Have any of the potions helped?" he finally asked, pulling off his apron.

"Not a one. No one can keep anything down, I'm afraid." Granger shrugged uneasily.

"Wonderful," he intoned grimly. "How are you feeling?"

"Not peachy keen, I'll tell you that much… but I'm fine, so far. Is there anything I can do?"

"No. I'm a piss-poor patient, so I apologize in advance for anything I may say or do."

Granger's smile was weak. "Poppy warned me. So did Minerva, for that matter. And Pomona…"

"What a relief." The words came out far more acidic than he intended. She didn't seem offended, however, merely putting a concerned hand to his forehead and casting several more diagnostic spells.

"You definitely have a fever, and about twenty minutes before nausea hits, I reckon."

"Wonderful…"

* * *

By the time he had fully regurgitated his breakfast and moved on to several rounds of dry heaves, Snape was thoroughly miserable. Splayed out on the lavatory floor and leaning against the toilet, he clutched at his aching sides, pondering the best way to end the torment.

 _Merlin's hairy balls, but I'd almost welcome back Nagini at this point_.

A knock at the door heralded Granger's arrival. Biting back a groan, he unwarded the door and let her in.

"Well?" he asked, not bothering to open his eyes.

"I'm the last man standing, as it were," she informed him. "Even Madame Gresham has gone down for the count."

"The students?"

"About as well as can be expected. Millie and Max are monitoring everyone, so we'll know if it becomes serious. Copious amounts of diarrhoea and vomit aside, things have calmed down."

"Anything new from Maxime?"

"There are over two hundred people ill at the palace. From what the Medi-Wizards can gather, one of the chefs was sick, and managed to pass it on during the feast."

His stomach rebelled abruptly, and he leaned over the rim of the loo trying in vain to expel his lower intestines. To his surprise, he felt hands pull his hair back and secure it with elastic; once the heaving subsided, he peered up blearily.

Through the distorting veil of her Bubble-Head Charm, Granger appeared worried. "It's a pink elastic, never fear."

"I'm sure I look absolutely smashing." He closed his eyes again.

Cautious, tender hands smoothed back the hair stuck to his forehead, and Snape let himself enjoy the sensation, trying not to lean into the gentle touch.

"I've seen you look far worse," Granger said softly. "You may feel like dying, but at least this time you're not."

"Silver linings." The cold floor was rapidly feeling too chilly, and Snape decided that it was safe enough to move back to his bed. "Can you help me up?"

"Of course," she responded, and heaved him off the floor with admirable strength. The softness of the bedding was a welcome reprieve, and he was barely awake long enough to register her tucking him in.

* * *

She checked on him several times over the course of the day, but by nine that evening, Snape had lapsed into a deep, exhausted slumber. By the time he finally regained his wits, it was almost eleven the following morning.

The Express was strangely quiet. Carefully, he sat up and took stock: the roiling unease of the previous day was gone, and although he felt like shite, it was still a massive improvement. Deciding that formality could go hang, he shrugged on his dressing gown and left the compartment.

Granger was asleep on the sofa in the lounge car, bright pink cheeks and restless twitching attesting to the fact that she had finally succumbed to the bug.

Transforming an abandoned teacup into a much deeper bowl, he gingerly shook the woman on the shoulder. "Granger. Wake up."

It took a couple of tries, but her eyes eventually opened. "Oh, god," she moaned. "I think I'm going to die."

"Bowl," he informed her and then pointed towards the corridor. "Room. Make haste."

"Too late…" she gasped and started to heave.

He barely got the bowl into position in time; hastily, he snagged at her hair with his other hand, lest it too take a dip in vomit. Waiting until he was fairly certain that the first barrage had concluded, he vanished the contents and dragged the pink elastic out of his own hair. A bit awkwardly, he pulled her hair into a messy ponytail, marvalling at the way it seemed to evelope his hands.

She gazed up at him, brown eyes utterly wretched.

"I don't think that pink is a good colour on you," he noted and was promptly rewarded by her middle finger saluting him. "Funny, Poppy, Minerva, and Pomona didn't bother to warn me that you are likewise a horrible patient."

Granger rolled onto her stomach, hiding her head in her arms. "I don't get sick," she mumbled. "Ever."

"My mistake, then. Clearly, you are currently the epitome of health and well-being."

"Not helping, Snape."

"Was I supposed to be?" Giving her arm a tug, he bullied her into a sitting position. "Let's actually get you into bed before you start criticizing my bedside manner."

Granger made it all of three steps before her knees gave out. "Really, woman, this is the time you choose to swoon?" Back protesting audibly, he scooped her into his arms and hoped that he wouldn't make a fool of himself by face-planting into the carpet. "Christ, but you're loads heavier than you look."

She glared at him. "Fuck. You."

"Not in the hallway where the children might see, and definitely not when your breath smells like regurgitated Armadillo Bile."

Whatever retort she was primed to make was pre-empted by another bout of nausea. "Hurry, Snape…"

"I'm hurrying!" he gasped, winded despite the short distance. Jiggling open her door, he took three unsteady steps towards the lav. Damn near clawing her way out of his arms, Hermione scrambled to the toilet and slammed the door behind her.

Wincing at the sounds issuing forth, Snape backed up warily. "I'll just…come back and check on you later."

* * *

He returned two hours later holding yet another container filled with a foul-smelling substance and several strips of linen.

"Granger, are you decent?"

The doors clicked open to reveal her lying on the floor of the lav, eyes shut.

"Depends on your definition," she mumbled. "Clothed, yes. Fit for company, no."

"Good thing I'm your boss, then, and not company."

He got the finger again. "Minerva does my evaluation, not you…"

"Which is no doubt a boon for all of us." Easing himself onto his knees, he examined her. For all that she had been hit last, Granger had not escaped any of the severity. Her skin had gone a mottled grey, and he also noted that her pulse was rapid and thready. _If this doesn't work_ , he decided, _then I'm getting a Healer in here, even if that means dragging Poppy all the way from Hogwarts_.

"I've brought something to help," he continued, uncovering the bowl. "Since you can't keep anything down, I concocted a healing paste to try instead."

"Wonderful," she croaked.

"I'm going to need to put it on your stomach, I think."

"At this point, I would almost accept a suppository." Shakily, she swiped at the sweat on her brow. "Do your worst."

Rolling up her shirt to expose her midriff, he layered a healthy amount of the green glop on. Using a gloved hand, he smoothed it into an even consistency. "You know, this is a bit like frosting a cake…" He blamed his next words on the fact that he was still recovering from his own illness. "Alas, you don't look good enough to eat."

After a gobsmacked pause, Granger laughed weakly. "Good Lord, Snape, your mouth really does get you into trouble, doesn't it?"

"Yes. Although why you find it all that surprising, I won't pretend to understand." Taking the linen with his clean hand, he smoothed the fabric over the paste, hoping that she would not see his reddened cheeks. "How does it feel?"

"Getting warmer," she sighed with relief.

"That would be the ground mustard seed in it," he informed her pedantically. Rocking back on his heels, he watched her closely. After a few minutes, she seemed to relax, a healthier colour coming over her.

"Better?"

"Yeah. All this," she gestured towards her stomach, "has calmed considerably."

"Excellent. Let's get you off the floor, then."

Granger pried open a sleepy eye. "I'm good."

"Really, Granger, are you going muster the strength to get up, or is martyrdom proving to be too much fun?" he asked with a touch of his normal exasperation.

"Mmm, s'lright here." One limp arm came up to cover her face.

 _Minerva would kill me if I just left her here…_ "Right, once more unto the breach…" Placing his arms under her knees and shoulders, Snape rose, just barely making it to his feet. "Well done, Madame. You are the only person that I've carried twice."

"Quite the gentlemen you are," she said, voice gone groggy. "Have I gotten any lighter since the last time?"

"No earthly idea." With as much care as he could manage given that his arms and back were screaming vile obscenities at him, he placed her on the bed and started to tuck her in.

Snuffling deeply into her pillow, Granger went boneless. "Does this mean you like me now?"

"I suppose." He gave the cover a final pat. "But only if you promise me that you're done being sick."

* * *

By the time everyone recovered, it was Tuesday. Snape had sent Maxime the recipe for the healing paste, which had proved highly effective; in return, she had sent over a case of her best champagne and several House-Elves to finish sanitizing the Express.

He was halfway through a pot of tea and the post when Granger walked in.

"Good morning, Severus," she remarked cautiously, still a bit pale.

"And a good morning to you too, Hermione," he returned genially, pushing her stack of letters over to her side of the table.

She eyed him with dry amusement for a moment. "Aren't we just a shining example of civility today?"

"Truly, others should take heed and learn from our great example." He hesitated, waffling a bit on whether or not he should say something. "Eat first. Then tackle those."

Her gaze narrowed. "I'm not going to like something in there, am I?"

"No."

Methodically, she buttered a slice of toast and fixed porridge. "Did everyone make it to class on time?"

"Yes, although Davies spent a good ten minutes whinging about having to go."

"How did Miss Patel look?"

"Shaky but resolute. Mr Burke promised to keep a close watch on her." He topped off his tea and then motioned towards her empty cup.

"Please," she murmured and then applied herself to the breakfast.

Snape waited until she had finished before sliding her the Sunday copy of the _Daily Prophet_.

"DIVORCE!" screamed the headline, and he saw her mouth tighten as she began to read.

 

_Special Report by Rita Skeeter ~ The Wizarding World has been aflame with the rumours of the imminent demise of the marriage between golden couple Harry Potter, 28, and Ginevra Weasley-Potter, 26. While no official statement has been made, this reporter can personally confirm that as of 24 September, the paperwork to dissolve their marriage has been filed with the Ministry of Magic._

_We can all remember the storybook wedding of just eight short years ago, and millions now want to know what has happened between the Boy-Who-Lived and his beautiful and talented redheaded bride…_

_Lies… broken promises… infidelity… if sources close to the couple are to be believed, dear reader, then Harry Potter has not just hoodwinked an entire nation into believing that he is a good wizard, but tried to fool his soon-to-be ex-wife as well!_

_Little is known for certain, but the evidence at hand seems to be painting a clear picture. Less than a week ago, Potter stepped down from his role as Deputy Field Inspector of the London Office of Aurors with the flimsy excuse of wishing to "spend more time with his family" - how many times has that been trotted out just prior to a massive scandal being uncovered? Add to the equation the equally unexplained disappearance this month of Hermione Granger—who was noticeably plumper before leaving Hogwarts for yearl-long trip to France—and one begins to feel quite a bit of sympathy for Ginevra Weasley-Potter…_

 

"I'm going to kill her this time. I really will!" Hermione exclaimed, fury blazing from every pore.

"You'll need to get in line, then. Perhaps you would be best served by creating a special interest group to take her down. Call it the 'Society Promoting Lynching And Tarring Troublesome, Evil Reporters.'"

She did not laugh.

"S.P.L.A.T.T.E.R, for short." Eyeing her expression, Snape readied a shield charm just in case.

"Are you done with this?" Her delicate hand crumpled the newsprint in a menacing fashion.

"I've finished the crossword if that's what you mean."

With a jerky flick, Hermione flung the paper off the table, lit it on fire and Vanished the remains before they could hit the carpet.

"Remarkable," Snape drawled, actually impressed with how quick her non-verbals had been. _Somebody has been practising.._.

"Oh, poor Harry," she groaned, deflating all at once.

"I would be less concerned with Mr Potter than with myself, was I you." Pulling the previous day's paper from the pile, he shoved it over. "To sum up, it was Ginevra who filed for divorce, not Potter. She's listed adultery in the complaint, and you as a witness." He gentled his tone. "I can recommend a good solicitor if you don't already have one."

Granger looked positively sick. "None of that," he told her sharply, not wishing to see the contents of anyone's stomach anytime soon. "You promised that you were done being sick."

"I did no such thing." Thumbing through her post, she pulled out the three letters from Potter and stared at them with foreboding. "Poor Harry," she repeated absently.

"Don't waste your pity on him," he snapped.

Eyes shooting sparks, she rounded on him. "How can you be so uncaring?!"

"Because," he shot back, "Potter has more lives than a dozen cats. He'll come out smelling like roses in the end: he always does. Think, Granger! If you want to pity someone, then let it be Arthur and Molly, or the Potter's children. Everyone is going to pressure them to choose sides, and to do so publicly."

"Oh, so what you are saying is that I should just disregard my best friend's heartache and pain because he'll eventually be fine?"

"Don't you dare put words in my mouth!" he hissed. "No, his life will not be enjoyable for the foreseeable future. I am not discounting that. But Potter will be fine."

"And just how do you know that?" She rose from the table, hands perching angrily on her hips.

"He has made it a point numerous times to inform me that he is no victim but a survivor." Trying to leech the sarcasm from his voice, he went on, "Potter _wants_ to be happy, Hermione, and that makes all the difference in the world."

Their eyes met over the width of the table, that curious and electric understanding suddenly flowing between them again.

"Minerva is readying the pitchforks, never fear," Snape said after a long pause, recognizing that he had given away more of himself in his answer than he ought. _In for a pence…_ "He will not be left alone to deal with this. Protect yourself, and then worry about him."

Hermione looked away first, her expression going carefully blank. "Thank you for advising me to eat first."

"You're welcome."

"I think…I'll just go read these in my compartment."

"Entirely understandable. Take care not to set off the smoke detection charms, please."

That earned him a snort as she disappeared down the corridor. "Have some faith in me, Headmaster. I haven't set them off yet."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, my thanks to all those who took the time to read, kudo, or comment. My writing is all the better for your encouragement and ideas! 
> 
> I strive for realism in my stories: hence, this chapter. Anyone who has travelled or been an ex-pat will know of what I speak. Oh, the places that I have been violently ill ;)
> 
> The title of the last chapter- 'A Sour Herb of Grace' - is a Shakespearian reference to the plant rue, which known for being bitter. This chapter comes from a rather different source- Micheal Jackson's song of the same name. 
> 
> Things are about to get very interesting in the next chapter- an unexpected visitor will be gracing the Hogwarts Express, intent on bringing much change *and* high fashion to its occupants. Any guesses who that might be?
> 
> Happy reading!


	7. Friends, Foes, and Clothes

_Chapter 7- Friends, Foes, and Clothes_

_6 October 2007_

If mirrors could talk—and thank Circe, this one didn't—surely this particular collection of glass and lead would be cackling with unholy glee as Snape fussed endlessly with the high collar of his outer robe. It did not matter what he did or how he tugged or folded; the idiotic piece of cloth just didn't lie right.

"Oh, sod this for a game of soldiers…" he cursed and ripped the ruddy garment off. Consulting the mirror again, he decided to forgo the robe entirely. It was certainly a less formal public style than he was accustomed to but hardly indecent. True, his vest now looked a little off, and one could clearly see the remnants of Nagini's bite on his neck…

_But it's not the scars that are bothering you, is it?_

With a sigh, he admitted defeat. The collar, the scars… they were only symptomatic of a wider dissatisfaction that had been haunting him since his last birthday. Severus knew that he should be more grateful for what he had, but he simply wasn't. Grimly, he stared in the mirror, mouth twisting as he took in his depressing appearance.

_Oh, but it would be wonderful to blame this all on Granger…_

It wasn't her fault, not precisely. But ever since the morning after the ball, he'd been unable to look in the mirror and see anything remotely pleasing; the internal dissatisfaction had steadily spread outward. A solid week had gone by, and Snape had spent more time stewing over his wardrobe and appearance than a spotty youth. Hell, he hadn't spent this much time worrying about his own appearance when he was a spotty youth.

 _How much longer can this go on?_ Snape thought to himself, then cringed at the self-pity tone. _No more_ , he decided abruptly. _If the definition of insanity is doing the same task over and over again while expecting different results, then I clearly need to change something or risk becoming a neighbour to Lockhart._

_Now, the question is, what can I change?_

Thinking about the areas in which he had some control, Severus came to several rapid conclusions.

_I am hundreds of kilometres from Hogwarts; if things go badly, I can Obliviate anyone who might spread the tale and intimidate the rest into silence. If there is ever a time to take a chance, this is it._

Snagging a piece of parchment from his bedside table, he began to write a brief note.

_Lucius-_

_You have always claimed that you could work wonders if given free reign on my wardrobe. Should you still be up to the challenge, you have exactly forty-eight hours to get your poncey arse down here and do so._

_Yours, etc_

_SS_

_P.S. Don't make me write to Narcissa, or your account at Gringotts will be funding this folly._

* * *

Surprisingly, it only took Lucius until supper to respond to his summons.

With a sigh of great satisfaction, the man lowered himself into one of the wing-backed chairs of the private lounge, fastidiously smoothing his peacock blue robes around him as he did so.

"So, my old friend," he drawled, eyes glinting with sardonic mirth, "…what brings about this sudden epiphany?"

"Can I not simply wish for change for change's sake?" he responded waspishly, pouring two cups of tea.

Lucius chuckled. "You are a creature of habit, Severus. I might buy that reasoning from another man, but not you. Out with it… what is the impetus for such a decision?"

"Three guesses. The first two don't count."

"A woman, then." Malfoy's smile became slyer. "Has a French bird of paradise finally caught your eye? Or perhaps it's a Spanish señora, luring you with her offer to tango… A buxom Belgian?"

Fleetingly, Snape debated on whether or not there was any benefit in prevaricating. _Best not. The blasted man will skewer me with the truth at the worst possible moment if I make him puzzle it out…_ "None of the above. She's English, as a matter of fact."

The other man's expression faded into careful neutrality. "Granger."

He gave a sharp nod, unwilling to say the words.

"Well, I will admit, it's not that much of a shock. McGonagall was certainly gauche enough with her machinations this summer."

"You knew?" Snape exclaimed before he could stop himself. "You knew and didn't think to warn me?"

Lucius gave him a chiding look. "Really, Severus, it was entirely clear. The woman is about as subtle as the Weasley's joke shop. In truth, I thought you only agreed to this expedition in order to humour her."

"It wasn't all that obvious…" he grumbled.

"Yes, it was," Lucius persisted. "Firstly, Granger is the only single staff member under fifty, and her favourite to boot. Had your Scottish counterpart not been seeking to set you up, she would have sent one of the more senior staff, or at least one that did not have a full teaching load. Do you have any idea how much it cost to bring Flitwick back for a year of supply teaching?"

"As I signed off on the budget, yes."

"Really," Malfoy sighed again, "…the effort of organizing such a trip—to France, no less!—was massive. To then let another person enjoy the spoils… if that doesn't scream setup, then I don't know what would."

"Put it that way…" _I really am going to have to spike some cat balm when_ _I return!_

"Quite so." Lucius steepled his fingers together consideringly and gave him a long look. "Still, I suppose if you are going to bring a woman twenty years to your junior to our social gatherings, you could do far worse than Granger. That horrid Brown chit, for example, has been unsuccessfully trying to attach herself to Edward Nott for ages."

"I am pleased that my choice meets with your royal stamp of approval," he said, voice full of venom.

Again, Malfoy got that damnable glint in his eye. "And as much as it pains me to admit it, she is at least far better looking than…"

Footsteps sounded in the hallway, and after a moment the door swung open. Hermione breezed, thumbing through the evening post.

"You've several letters…" she began, and then cut off suddenly when she caught sight of his guest.

Lucius rose swiftly from his chair and made a formal bow. "Professor Granger. A pleasure, as always."

Her reaction was a bit like watching a cat puff up in anger at the sight of a dog; Snape could swear that her hair seemingly doubled in size, and her features sharpened in preparation for an attack. _I must be an utter fool to think that this could ever work!_

"Mr. Malfoy."

"Your timing is most fortuitous. We were just speaking of you…"

Granger's eyes narrowed, and she shot him an accusatory glance. "Were you, now?"

_Oh, bollocks. I'll kill Lucius if he tries to have a spot of fun!_

"Why, yes, we were," the other man continued smoothly. "I was telling the Headmaster that I had received several favourable reports concerning your Advanced Charms seminar from one my French counterparts."

"How perfectly wonderful to hear." Granger's mouth stretched into a parody of a smile, and she glanced between the two men for a long moment before continuing her questioning. "Pray tell, Mr. Malfoy, what brings you to Beauxbatons so unexpectedly?"

Lucius own grin only deepened. "Shopping, Professor Granger. I find that my winter wardrobe is sadly lacking, and as my closest friend happens to be residing in France, it seemed only appropriate to take a little trip to the Continent and refresh my closet."

"Shopping?" Her voice rippled with ill-concealed scorn.

"Indeed." Lucius stretched out an arm to better reveal the expertly tailored lines of his robes. "As you can see, these old rags are helplessly out of date."

Either Granger cottoned on to the fact that Malfoy was deliberately needling her, or she finally decided to remember her manners; her expression levelled into more impersonal lines. "As I know nothing about fashion, I shall leave the two of you to it." With a shallow bow, she placed his letters on the side table and made to leave.

"Professor Granger," Snape called, and she paused in the doorway. "As Lucius is also on the Board of Governors, Madame Maxime has invited us for after dinner drinks tonight. We will attend as a group."

Unspoken in his words was the dictate that she would not only attend but behave; he would tolerate none of the usual bickering between them. Her jaw firmed, but she remained outwardly calm.

"As you wish."

* * *

The door had barely closed behind her when Lucius raised a supercilious eyebrow, no doubt preparing to make some sort of scathing comment. Giving the man a firm glare, Snape spoke. "No more of that. I am well aware that you can act like an adult without resorting to all the campy dramatics of a village theatre group."

"Yes, I can. But the question is, why would I want to?"

"Because I am asking it of you."

Malfoy went silent, glancing at the delicate teacup held in his broad hands. "You are determined to have her, then?"

Severus swallowed, something of his old insecurities flaring up. "I haven't made up my mind entirely." _And given what just occurred, everything could go to hell in a handbasket before 'it' even gets started…_

"Yes or no, Severus?"

Lucius was his best friend and had been at his side through the worst of it; moreover, he knew Severus better than anyone else living, and perhaps even dead. Still, it was an effort to answer the question as bluntly as required.

"I mean to try," he admitted finally, fingers drumming an uncertain rhythm on his own cup.

To his relief, Lucius didn't tease him further. "Very well."

"That's all you have to say?"

"Would you prefer the dramatics?" Taking in his expression, the other man chuckled darkly. "You've been unhappy for the better part of a year and distinctly unfulfilled for the last two. If it takes a sparkling new wardrobe and the dubious charms of Hogwarts' second-worst harpy to improve matters, then who am I to gainsay you?"

"It's a bit more complicated than that," Snape grumbled. And it was; for all that Granger was an impetus for this change, she was not truly the lever.

"A fact that I am well aware of. But one should always go for the easy birds first, and then worry about the tricky shots after."

"Granger is neither a bird nor easy."

Malfoy smirked. "I wouldn't be so sure of that. Just wait until I get done with you."

* * *

Alas, the ceasefire was only temporary; while they both behaved reasonably enough during drinks that night, Snape came back into Express the following morning to find the air crackling with magic and raw fury.

Lucius was genuinely furious, of that he could easily tell, and Granger's eyes were flashing in a fashion that typically heralded a swift hexing. The Slytherin rose as soon as he saw Snape, hand gripping his cane tightly.

"Are you ready to depart?"

Snape had meant to change before the shopping expedition commenced, but seeing the state his friend was in, decided that it would be prudent to forgo any primping.

"Lead on."

In short order, the two of them had Apparated to the wizarding quarter of Paris, and Lucius was striding through the hordes of noonday shoppers with enough of a glower to make passers-by flinch.

"Dare I ask?"

"I would recommend," he hissed through clinched teeth, "…that you educate your Professor Granger about just how much freedom the lot of us had when the Dark Lord demanded something. "

"What on earth were you discussing?" Snape inquired after a pause, hastily dodging a witch and several snot-nosed sprogs.

"I was trying to… well, it doesn't matter. Originally we were discussing the difference between French and English hospitality traditions. As you know, the House of Malfoy has always been more aligned with the French style, rather than the English. When I attempted to point out some of the finer aspects that relate to estate charmwork, Granger had the temerity to comment that she had noticed no such protections when she had visited the Manor. As if I had any say in the matter…"

"Ahh," he said slowly and understood why Malfoy was furious. There had not been a choice to play host to the Dark Lord during the last months before the Battle of Hogwarts, nor had there been anything the Malfoys could have done differently once Granger and her compatriots and become 'guests' of the Manor; any protests would have resulted in a painful and lingering death for all involved. The Dark Lord's autarchic action had been both a threat and insult to the House of Malfoy, and Granger should have recognized that.

They halted in front a discreet shop front simply labelled "Lasueur."

"Lucius."

The man turned, hand on the doorknob.

"I will speak with her. And should she prove to be less than understanding about that aspect of our shared past, yesterday's discussion will be rendered purely academic."

Some of the tension ebbed out of the man, and the beginnings of rueful humour softened the taut lines of his face. Giving his forearm a brief squeeze, Malfoy spoke. "Severus, I don't mean to get in the way…"

"No," he interrupted. "I don't have so many friends that I would abandon one who has never forsaken me."

Lucius looked away before clearing his throat. "Draco taught me a rather amusing Muggle phrase several weeks ago. 'Bros before Hoes,' I believe it was." The man enunciated the phrase with deliberate relish.

Snape couldn't help the loud guffaw that broke free. "From more of those blasted American films, I gather? Well, vulgar as the statement may be, it does rather strike at the heart of the matter."

"It does, doesn't it? Of course, we are excluding Narcissa from the edict."

He rolled his eyes. "Naturally. While I am no longer well-versed in Muggle colloquial vernacular, I highly doubt your wife would fall under the category of 'hoe.' Now, can we get this over with before I lose my nerve entirely?"

* * *

Martin Lesueur had surprisingly hard eyes for one who worked with finer fabrics of life.

"Hello, Lucius," he said greeting, gaze measuring Snape as he came from behind a counter. "I am disappointed. You promised me a challenge, not merely someone who is in dire need of updating."

Lucius dismissed the Frenchmen's words with a blasé wave. "Repeat that sentiment once you need him to try on a few items. Severus, this is Martin Lesueur. You would do well to not argue with him. Martin, allow me to present Headmaster Severus Snape. Martin, if he does dare argue with you, listen."

They shook hands a touch warily; the man was not at all the flamboyant fop that Severus had been expecting. Clad in an unpretentious white button-down shirt and navy slacks, Lesueur could have passed for a Muggle, and Snape found that fact oddly reassuring.

"I understand, Headmaster, that you are looking to completely overhaul your wardrobe?"

"I am."

"Then I would have you look around at what I currently have in stock. Find items that you like, as well as things that you do not, and ponder on what sort impression you are seeking to make. While you are doing that, I have some new robes that will be of interest to your friend. Does that sound reasonable?"

"It will do well enough."

* * *

The shop was thankfully devoid of other patrons, and Snape spent the first few minutes just trying to decipher the general layout of the place.

It had been decades since he'd last truly been shopping; Twilfitt and Tattings's had his measurements, and when he needed something replaced, he merely sent an owl with his order. If what he had did not fit the situation, then it was easy enough to transfigure it into something more appropriate.

As a child, he possessed only items that could be picked up out of one of the thrift-shop reject bins, or, as he got older, some of his Da's hand-me-downs; his Hogwarts robes had been the first new items he'd ever owned. As a bursary student, he'd stayed in his uniform seven days a week, not having anything decent to wear otherwise. Not surprisingly, his lack of proper clothes had always been a source of deep shame for him, made only worse when the inadequacies had been brutally exposed by the Marauders.

Directly following graduation, he started his Mastery, and that had necessitated a different type of uniform; it wasn't until he'd been hired to teach Potions that Snape had been forced to venture into a clothing shop for something completely new.

He had stood staring at the endless racks of shirts and jackets, feeling like an utter fraud when Albus Dumbledore had waltzed in.

"Severus, my dear boy. Here to buy your first set of professorial robes?"

"Yes."

"Excellent, excellent." For once, the man had decided to meddle in his favour. "And have you seen anything to your taste?"

"Not quite." _Mostly because I had no idea what I should be looking for, you barmy bastard…_

"Well, I rather imagine that you'll want something that will convey a certain sense of gravitas- I'm afraid you will be the youngest professor on staff by nearly twenty years, and you still do know the majority of the student body. Of course, it needs to be in a fabric that can handle the rigours of the Potions Classroom… poor Horace was just lamenting the loss of a particularly dear waistcoat just other day…"

The Headmaster had started to flick through a rack, hard blue eyes focusing on Severus for an uncomfortably long moment. "Hmm, something in black, I would think. All the better to hide stains, and easier to coordinate, too. Imogene, my dear, do you have anything that would fit the bill?"

And just like that, Snape's infamous billowing black robes had been born. They had done their job as armour and concealing shield for almost thirty years, but he now wanted something new. Not the gaudy peacock-blue robes that Lucius wore, certainly…

"Headmaster, have you come to any conclusions?" The Frenchman reappeared at his side as if divining his thoughts.

"There are some rather fine robes over here, Severus," Lucius interjected, holding a positively ghastly item up for inspection.

Glancing over, he made a face. "Stripes? With a hint of a floral motif? I think not," he groused, knowing that he was being teased.

Lesueur smiled faintly. "While they are rather avant-garde, you could pull it off. Your figure is lean enough for it."

"And I would feel like a ruddy fool and an imposter the entire time." He shook his head. "No, I would like something more on the Muggle side of the aisle. And I am not opposed to some colour, nor a more modern cut."

"Am I correct in thinking that you are aiming for a style a little less 'Victorian Undertaker,' then?"

Snape glanced down at his attire wryly. "'Victorian Vicar,' please. No undertaker would risk something with this much billow."

"Of course." Lesueur gaze swept over him again. "I assume the rest of your wardrobe is of a similar design?"

"Yes."

He gave a Gallic shrug of unconcern. "From what I can see, the individual pieces are quite good. Incorporating new items would be the easiest; your look would change, but not so much that people would fail to recognize you. Have you found anything you do like?"

Reaching a long arm over to a shelf, he picked up a deep navy jumper. "This."

Lucius strolled over to have a look. "Cashmere, Severus? How positively decadent of you…"

* * *

Several hundred galleons later, Snape had easily tripled his wardrobe and Lucius was already trying to plan a future shopping trip to Milan. The man had also insisted that he wear one new item out of the store, and not surprisingly, Snape had chosen the first jumper.

Staring at the mirror in the dressing room, he had to admit that the look wasn't too far off his normal to be shocking, but was satisfyingly… contemporary. _Younger?_ Snape wondered, taking in the tall dragonhide boots, elegant black woollen slacks, button-down shirt and v-neck jumper.

"Welcome to the twentieth century, my friend," Lucius said from behind him, a smug smile etched onto his face.

"You are aware that it's actually the twenty-first century?" he inquired dryly.

"Of course. Having earned an Outstanding in my Astronomy N.E.W.T, I am well aware of our current placement on the Gregorian calendar. Alas, your clothing hasn't quite joined us yet."

With deliberate insolence, Snape raked his gaze across his friend's brand new orange and purple paisley robes. "And if that's what the twenty-first century looks like, I'll gladly linger in the past."

"Suit yourself…"

"I plan on it."

* * *

Granger and Madame Gresham were discussing the week's upcoming menus when they returned to the Express, and the older woman leapt up to pour several cups of fresh tea.

"Headmaster, Mr. Malfoy. I trust your shopping trip went well?" Madame Gresham asked cheerfully.

"Oh, it was quite the success," Lucius responded. "Why, I even coerced Severus into buying a few things."

Madame Gresham smiled at him. "I can see. What a lovely jumper, Headmaster. It's so nice to see you in a bit of colour for a change…"

Severus felt the beginnings of flush spread, and he busied himself with the remains of the newspaper to hide it. _This is exactly what I don't want to happen…_ For the next several minutes he pointedly ignored the conversation flowing around him, and finally surfaced once Madame Gresham bustled away to the kitchens and would no longer natter on about his clothing.

Lucius stretched and gave Severus a pointed look. "I think that I shall retire for a nap before supper."

"Don't be late," Snape ordered sharply. "It starts at seven, and you know how I feel about being on time."

"Yes, yes, I know. You've lectured me on the subject any number of times."

He raised an eyebrow. "And yet, you always manage to arrive at ten past the appointed time..."

"All the better to make an entrance." Malfoy sighed and rose in a dramatic cloud of paisley. Giving cool nod to Granger, he left the carriage.

She made a slight face and then saw Snape watching her. "What? The only other person I know that takes naps is Harry and Gin's five year old, and he only reluctantly."

"He's not actually going for a kip," Snape informed her flatly. "He's going to write his daily letter to Narcissa and then fuss over all of his new clothes."

Shrugging, she went back to her own papers. Snape let the topic drop, trying to sort out in his mind exactly what he wanted to say as well as the best way to approach the problem. _Bluntness, I think. I want to make sure that there are no misunderstandings…_

Despite having lived in the same Castle for the last five years, as well as the six years that she had been a student, Snape didn't know Granger all that well, and certainly not much the adult iteration that sat before him. Outside of the usual administrative rigmarole, there was virtually no mingling between himself and the more junior staff; he had been perfectly content to ignore her on the rare occasions that their social groups had collided.

If he was going to do this—'this' being some sort of relationship with Hermione—then he was damn well going to take his time and make sure that he actually wanted to get wet before jumping headlong into the shark-infested waters. And that meant getting to know her—and letting her see the parts of him that he'd much rather keep hidden.

But the open hostility he had seen in her earlier in the day bothered him greatly. While he wasn't expecting Hermione and Lucius to become bosom buddies—the man was a handful at the best of times, and given their personal history, her anger with him was justified— some tolerance of the past was required if there was any hope in hell of a personal relationship between the two of them.

As with Lucius, he was inherently and irrevocably a Dark wizard. After growing up amid the poverty and squalor of his dysfunctional youth, it was the force that made the most elemental, visceral sense to him; it spoke to the basest needs and desires that drove all of mankind- not to mention himself. Twenty years as a Death Eater had not dulled that fascination- studying the Dark Arts was like playing the ultimate chess match, not just against a single, external opponent, but also against the worst parts of oneself at the same time.

Lily had never accepted or understood that side of him; Albus had never had the stones to acknowledge that he was just as Dark as Severus was. Even with Minerva, it had taken almost dying before she'd actually trusted him. How would Hermione react?

 _Well_ , he thought, _here goes nothing…_

Taking a sip of tea, he spoke again. "Hermione, when you argued with Lucius earlier, who brought up the topic of hospitality traditions?"

She stiffened, sensing that she might not like the conversation. "Malfoy did. Why?"

"Because while it was a rather obtuse, Slytherin way to go about it, he was trying to apologize to you for what happened. By pointing out that you experienced none of the obnoxious Pureblood household rituals that should have been in place, Lucius was trying to show you that he had no control over events."

"Then he should have simply should have apologized," she replied firmly, mouth thinning.

Leaning back in his chair, he watched her fiddle with her papers, the defensiveness practically rolling off her in visible waves. It wasn't as if Granger was prejudiced against the Slytherin or pureblooded students, and he knew her to be fair-minded when it came to most matters; her issues with Lucius were deeply personal ones.

"Do you think that he had a choice in allowing the Dark Lord to reside in Malfoy Manor?" he asked placidly.

It was her turn to eye him in some speculation. "I think that he had many choices over the course of his life, and he consistently made the wrong ones."

 _Not nearly good enough, Granger…_ He made a soft, almost gentle sound of derision. "Ah, so in your youth, you never made a decision to involve yourself in a cause, thinking that it would only affect you, only to find out much later that it would have dire consequences for those whom you loved?"

She went white at his reference to her family, anger and hurt flaring in her eyes. "What I did in the war was quite different from joining the Death Eaters. Moreover, I Obliviated my parents to save them, not harm them! It was done out of love…"

"And you do not think that Lucius is motivated by that same emotion?"

"Love of power, perhaps," she conceded, "…but as for the rest? You cannot excuse away being what amounts to a terrorist and murderer because it was done out of love."

His gaze turned mocking. "You cannot? Funny, that, because my Order of Merlin would beg to differ."

"You know what I mean!"

"Virtually every crime and moral offence that you can level against Lucius is one that I am equally guilty of. Really," he drawled, "the most significant difference between he and I relates to his penchant for financial maleficence. Not having the blunt for such shenanigans, I naturally could not compete with him in that arena."

"You," she hissed, "did not give a young girl a possessed, evil book with the hopes of opening up the Chamber of Secrets and killing off Muggle-born children. You did not try to topple the entire government for personal gain, or grant sanctuary a despotic mass murderer…"

"No. But I was a bully of the worst sort for the majority of my teaching career, and did, in fact, torture students under my care; hell, I tortured and killed many people who had good reason to trust me. I aided in the fall of the Ministry of Magic. Oh, but the laundry list of things that I did… What makes me any different than him, Hermione? Why am I to be forgiven, and not he?"

Granger appeared close to tears; whether from fury or frustration, he could not tell. "What do you want from me, Snape? To suddenly hate you again?"

"No," he said quietly. "My greatest wish hasn't changed since your student days. I want you to think, and think critically."

He thought for a moment that she would walk out on him, and he kept his tone as dispassionate as he dared. "Why do you think that so many purebloods aligned with Dark Lord, Hermione?"

"Shall I make you a list? Xenophobia, bigotry, latent misogyny, ignorance, inbreeding…"

"In part? Certainly. But Pureblood society didn't suddenly decide at a garden party one Sunday to rip apart the entire social fabric of wizarding Britain. It wasn't a whim, I assure you. There were reasons for their rage, and excellent ones at that. When Albus Dumbledore became the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, he and number of like-minded cronies spearheaded any number of acts and provisions that threatened the core of Pureblood culture."

"What a pity," Granger spat.

He matched her scorn. "Yes, I imagine that you would have no problem with being told who and how you would marry, have your family's livelihood utterly destroyed and possessions redistributed for the 'greater good,' not to mention your dearly held traditions outlawed. And that was just to start…"

"I cannot believe that you, of all people, would preach on the superiority of Pureblood beliefs!"

Deliberately, he stared her down, giving her words all the silent contempt that they deserved. "You purposely misunderstand me, Professor Granger. Everyone has a reason, and everyone has a price; you would do well to learn about the causes of the Dark Lord's rise so that you may better teach those who would bring about another like him."

That cooled her ire a few degrees. "Understand," Snape said, switching into something akin to his lecture mode, "that much like every uprising and civil war in humanity's long and bloody history, while nominally about ideology, our conflict had more to do with resources and population numbers. By nineteen-sixty, the Pureblood families of Britain were outnumbered by Muggles and half-bloods three to one; by nineteen-seventy-five, there were just as many seismic socio-political changes happening in the magical community as there were in the Muggle."

"And Lucius?" she asked, leaning back in her own chair and crossing her arms.

"And Lucius fell into the situation as the oldest son of a well-known family on the brink of economic ruin, thanks to the gambling and spendthrift ways of his parents. In five years, he turned the family's fortunes around, and then as the government took sharp turn to the left, it appeared that he would lose everything he had worked so hard for. Understandably, he decided to fight back."

Unable to sit still, he rose and started to pace, remembering the tumult of his student days. "The Dark Lord was the first person to actually push back on the social reforms being proposed by Dumbledore. He advocated a return to the old ways and traditional practices; according to many, it was the only method that could restore the magical community to the stability and prosperity that it had once enjoyed. At first, his rhetoric concerning Muggles and the Muggleborn was not overtly racist. He argued that like any newcomer, they did not have the background to understand why things had always been done a certain way and knew not what they were unknowingly dismantling. But as their influence grew, so did Pureblood anxiety around the sudden influx of new ideas and culture. It was felt that Muggleborns did not assimilate, as much as invade."

Taking a moment to sip his tea, he tried to organize his thoughts into a more succinct argument. "There was serious talk about forcibly dismantling the large Pureblood estates and redistributing the wealth, of outlawing a variety of magical practices and spells, as well as lessening the Statute of Secrecy. Was it any wonder that a fair amount of the wizarding populace saw those actions as a direct threat? And then it grew ugly after several prominent members of the Rowle and Crabbe families were arrested and thrown into Azkaban for treason. The pushback began in earnest… and at that point Lucius formally joined the retinue of the Dark Lord, which later became the core of the Death Eaters." Seeing the question in Hermione's gaze, he added, "I joined four years after Lucius did after the group had effectively militarized."

He'd been so angry and incredibly bitter at the world at that time in his life; Snape had joined the Death Eaters in a bid not just for acceptance, but also in the name of revenge. By the time that he had started to have second thoughts, it was too late, and matters were spiralling out of control.

"I regretted taking the Dark Mark almost immediately; Lucius… ah, well, it was almost a decade before he came to share my views, and by then the violence had reached truly sickening levels. For him, it wasn't until after it became clear that the Dark Lord would rise again that he reconsidered his position. And by then, of course, he had far more to lose and very little chance of escaping the horrors."

Slanting her a sardonic glance, he went on. "Lucius saved my life and cover countless times over the years; without his support, I would have been lucky to survive past your fifth year at Hogwarts. More importantly, he saved dozens of Pureblood families who chose to not align with the Dark Lord, and later, many of the more… innocent followers. And in the end, of course, he threw his towel in with Potter and Order."

"Thus saving his own skin," Hermione muttered without much heat.

"Yes," he agreed. "To save his own skin and that of his family. He is a survivor, just as I am… and you, for that matter. Hermione, had he tried to intervene when you were brought to the Manor, it would have meant the slow and terrible death of first his son, then his wife, and finally him. You would have died, along with Potter and Weasley, and it would have doomed me as well."

He sighed, wondering if he had made any sense. "Again, I am not trying to excuse his behaviour or actions or even pureblood politics, but events are far less black and white than someone like Dumbledore would have you believe. I am not asking you to change your mind about him nor take a liking to the man. However, just as you would not stand idly by and allow me to insult Mr. Potter, I will not let you be unjustly rude to my best friend. You don't have to respect him; I only request that you are civil to him, and he will do the same."

Her expression, when Snape finally chanced a look, was a cipher. "Why are you telling me all this?" she asked finally.

Waffling for a long moment, he wondered if he should lay it all out on the table. _No_ , he decided, _better for the both of us if I leave some wiggle room…_ "Because Minerva suggested that we might become friends. "

"Did she now?"

"Oddly enough, she did. But I am no Byronic hero, Hermione. Truth be told, I am no hero at all. Lucius and I are different sides of the same coin, and if there is any chance of us becoming friends, you need to accept that. I am a murderer. As you termed it, a terrorist, and many other terrible things besides."

It was impressive how little he could read from her countenance, and Snape was sorely tempted to exercise a spot of Legilimency to discern what effect his speech had on her. She wasn't arguing with him, and he couldn't decide if that was good sign or not.

"Now," he said dryly, "as I am not nearly as sanguine about the past as this conversation would indicate, I am in need my own little kip before supper. I hope that we can continue this conversation at a later point. I can only imagine that you might have further questions."

"I usually do," she replied quietly, brown eyes watchful.

 _And that is the best that I can hope for…_ With a final nod, he left the compartment, desiring a very stiff drink indeed.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo, what do you think? I am always curious as to how others see the Pureblood cause when it's given a bit of nuance and isn't reduced down to black and white. I will admit, this was an odd chapter to write- I had planned for it to be all fluff, but in the end, Severus needed to get some things off his chest. It is ever so fun when the characters you write decide to take over.
> 
> Next chapter- things get... bloody.
> 
> Happy reading!


	8. Les Anglais Ont Debarqué

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check the date- there are two different timelines in this chapter!

_2 May 2008_

_Hogsmeade Station_

"Headmistress, the Hogwarts Express has gone missing."

For an excruciatingly breathless moment, all of the air in Hugh Munro's office vanished into nothingness, and the only thing Minerva could feel was the inexorable squeeze of duty around her. No accident could cause the Express to disappear in such a fashion; only an act far more nefarious could do so. And "nefarious" could only mean one thing…

 _I can't do this_ , she thought weakly, visions of a tumbled Castle and dead children flashing before her. Recalling a time dominated by madmen and even madder plots… _Not again!_

Quite suddenly Minerva was aware of the fragile and mysterious workings of her own body: an always-present dull ache in knees and hips brought on by age, the heavy tension of her chignon on her neck, and the way her heart seemed to give a little flutter after each beat, a lasting legacy of being hit by a series of stunners.

Enough of her life had been spent at war that the recognition of her mortality was never far off. And yet, the last ten years had been spent in relative peace, driven not by concerns of survival, but in the pursuit of happiness. She'd become quite complacent, but now it appeared that it had come time to pay the piper.

Minerva vividly recalled the Express as she'd last seen it, leaving Hogsmeade Station for Beauxbatons. Scarlet sides hissing with steam and smoke, the engine had seemed to be a creature alive: an iron dragon preparing to take flight. The students had been a cheerful, happy lot, proud to be representing the school and more than ready for the upcoming adventure. And oh, the delightfully baleful glare that Severus had given her as she had shoved him aboard like a recalcitrant child…

It was the thought of Severus that finally broke through the wall of shock and disbelief. He was with the children, he and Hermione, and if there ever was a pair that could win against impossible odds, it was the two of them.

 _He'll do what needs to be done to keep the students safe, and I'll do my part to bring them home_ , she vowed, stiffening her spine as something close to acceptance flowed through her.

The noisy clatter of a cup on a saucer broke the silence. "What… what do you mean, the Express is gone?" Matthew Clarke stuttered, a widening circle of brown on the table attesting to where he'd spilt the tea.

Hugh sent him a hard look. "Exactly what I said, boy. The Express is no longer travelling on the tracks."

"But…" he protested feebly, fear filling his expression. Belatedly, Minerva remembered that he had been raised abroad during the Troubles, and had never seen conflict. _Well_ , she thought with no little sympathy, _he's about to find out what he's made of, and Merlin help us all if he's not up to the task…_

"Have a biscuit and calm yourself," she ordered sternly, turning back to Hugh to give the lad a moment to compose himself. "Can the map tell us anything further?"

"No," he replied shortly, striding over to his desk and opening up a drawer. From the depths, he pulled a wickedly sharp silver dirk. "The bloody thing's useless now that the enchantments are broken. But I do have another way to see what happened."

Minerva glanced back at Clarke. He had regained some of his colour, but his gaze was still a touch glassy. _He'll have to do. I'll need him to do the running about once we get back up to the Castle…_

"Lead on, Station Master," she said and was pleased with how calm her tone came out.

In less than a minute they were back outside, the wind carrying a great deal more _froideur_ than it had been before. Stepping to the edge of the platform, Hugh unwound the red and green tartan from around his shoulders and handed it to her. "If you would, my lady."

Wordlessly, Minerva took the proffered wool and draped it over her non-wand arm. She watched as Hugh hopped down onto the rail line, landing as gracefully as any cat.

"Family lore," he said, voice returning to an affable approximation of their earlier conversation, "…states that long ago, a daughter of Clan Munro fell in love with a Prince of the Fae. He could not give her immortality, of course, but granted their children the rarest of gifts among his kind: the ability to work and call iron."

Kneeling down, he stroked the metal with an easy intimacy, staring down the length of empty line as if he could summon the Express by sheer will alone.

"My Mam always did like her tales. Still, there has to be some truth to it, given that I can do this..." Head tilting upward, the man gave her the briefest of gimlet grins, bonnie blue eyes and sharp cheekbones doing more to recall a Viking ancestor rather than something otherworldly. Minerva felt the hair on the back of her neck stand to attention as his silver dirk flashed in what remained of the late afternoon sunshine. Bringing the blade down on the fleshy part of his left palm, Hugh scored the skin deeply, blood running down his hand and onto the line; gripping the metal with the bloody hand, he reached towards the sky with the other.

"Sealltainn dhomh dè bha air falach!" he demanded, and as his magic burst free Minerva noted that it felt distinctly… wild. "Seall dhomh!"

In the face of such powerful blood magic, she found that she was automatically brandishing her wand, and from the corner of her eye, saw that Clark had done the same. _Good lad_ , she thought, but before she could think any further the muted roar of the Express filled the air.

Like some sort of odd projection onto the surface of the cloudy sky, Minerva abruptly saw the Express determinedly steaming down a stretch of track. For a moment, the scene appeared normal, even peaceful. It couldn't be too far away- not if the rolling hills and blooming heather were any indication. Then, like a bad Muggle horror film, there was an explosive, bright ripple in the air and the track in front of the train was annihilated in a cloud of smoke and flame.

The steam engine seemed to jump skyward with the impact, and for an instant, Minerva thought it might just fly to safety. But a second explosion struck the train, this time from the side, and the first two carriages rolled off the track and halfway down a slope, emitting great black billows of smoke as they caught fire; the three remaining cars piled into the mess with a drawn out and sickening series of impacts.

"Oh, Circe save them..." Minerva gasped as she took in the unfolding carnage.

"I canna hold it much longer, Headmistress!" Munro exclaimed through gritted teeth, and she ripped her attention from the wreckage of the Express and down to the man kneeling on the tracks. His face had gone completely bloodless, every muscle of his body taut with the effort of sustaining the enchantment.

"Let it go," she commanded sharply. "We've seen enough."

With a wheeze, he did so, and the apparition rapidly faded away until only the wood and station house of Hogsmeade could be seen. Closing her eyes, Minerva fought back a wave of nausea that threatened to overtake her; she couldn't be weak, not when so many lives depended on her to make the correct decisions.

 _This isn't like before_ , she told herself. _And you will not make the same mistakes!_

When she opened her eyes again, it was to find Hugh methodically cleaning his red blade on the spring green grass; a Crested tit gave a low trill somewhere amongst the shivering pines. Unbidden, a fragment of a poem came to her.

"But pleasures are like poppies spread,  
You seize the flower, it's bloom is shed;  
Or, like the snow-fall in the river,  
A moment white, then melts forever."

She did not realise that she had spoken it out loud until Hugh joined her on the final stanza, a faint smile playing across his face as he did so.

"You're a fan of Robert Burns, then?" Minerva asked, noting that he had healed the wound on his hand with a brief swept of his wand.

Boosting himself back up to the platform, he took his tartan from her and deftly swirled it over his shoulders. "I'd be a poor excuse for a Scotsman if I weren't."

They stared at each other for a quiet moment, an unspoken communion reached. She had known Hugh Munro for the better part of forty years; he had been a fixture of the Hogsmeade set since he'd become the Station Master. Although he been one of the first villagers that came to Hogwarts aid ten years ago, she'd never really paid him much mind, not when terms like 'rapscallion' and 'playboy' were freely bandied about. Why would she, when Minerva faithfully played the role of cloistered academic stuck firmly in her tower?

_Severus isn't the only one who needed to see the world with fresh eyes, is he?_

There was nothing foolish or playful in the man standing in front of her. No, what she saw was a startling mixture of determination and pragmatism. His underlying competency shouldn't have been attractive, or even all that comforting, but Minerva found that it suddenly was. She didn't have to explain the rules to him, nor the potential costs. He knew what the game was and was not dissuaded.

"Will you come back to the Castle with us?" The question was purely pro forma, and they both knew it. Still, she had to ask, had to put the proper protections in place as Head of Hogwarts.

Hugh gave a formal bow, one that called to mind far older traditions and oath takings. "I will, Headmistress, and gladly serve as you please."

A flare of relief followed his words. _At least I will not be alone in whatever comes next…_

Returning his gesture with her own regal nod, Minerva stretched her arms out to both men. "Come. As there is much to be done, I will Side-Along the both of you back to the Castle so we may begin."

Both men moved swiftly to her side; gripping their forearms, she steadied herself and prepared to make the leap. She could feel the tension of Clarke, leaking out of him as if his skin were nothing but a sieve. Hugh, by contrast, was unruffled, the heat of his arm warming her palm.

"And so it begins," he murmured.

"And so it begins," she confirmed and promptly Disapparated them away with a thunderous crack.

* * *

_27 October 2007_

_Beauxbatons_

Hermione spent the following two days of Lucius Malfoy's visit tucked away in her compartment or wandering alone amidst the sprawling gardens of Beauxbatons. Snape's speech had been equal parts rebuke, explanation, and invitation, leaving her discombobulated and feeling wrong-footed. She had no idea how to respond to his assertions and accordingly did not want to tangle with either of the men until she got her thoughts properly sorted. The Headmaster's main point- that she had to understand the foundations of the Voldemort Conflict- was one that academically made sense, but was not something she could reconcile emotionally. Too much pain had been visited upon her to separate the personal from the wider societal issues.

 _I suppose_ , she thought with a huff, _it's like the need to understand how Germany fell to bits after the Great War: ordinary Germans suffered in greatly the aftermath of reparations, and it made them easy prey for the Nazi and nationalist propagandists, which in part led to atrocities of the Holocaust... Still, the comparison doesn't make it any easier to stomach Lucius Malfoy. It's not as if I'd be terribly keen to befriend a former Nazi Officer either!_

While Hermione wasn't convinced by Severus' argument, she had been surprised by the reasons he'd given for the rise in Pureblood anger- they were not issues she'd ever heard discussed by her fellow Hogwarts professors or members of the Order of the Phoenix. _  
_

 _Oh, just admit it!_ that same swotty voice continued. _He did catch you out on that one for sure... You know more about the Goblin Wars than any recent periods of history; hell, you know far more about Tudor era-England than you about socio-political happenings of the British magical community in the nineteen-seventies and eighties._

The realisation was both galling and scary; as an academic, she liked to think of herself as reasonably well informed and of balanced, fair opinions. She knew that Albus Dumbledore hadn't been all goodness and light, but the notion that the Death Eaters cause had any sort of legitimacy was incredibly difficult to stomach.

Recalling Snape's parting comments about friendship, Hermione resisted the urge to squirm; his opening up to her in such a fashion was as blatant of a declaration of interest as one was ever likely to get from a Slytherin.

_But are you really interested in him? Are you intrigued enough to put up with Malfoy on a regular basis?_

Drunken flirting aside she'd never looked at Severus that way, at least not before leaving Hogwarts. True, he'd always been fascinating to her, but in an unreachable and untouchable fashion- and frankly, his past as a Death Eater had been a rather intimidating part of that mystique.

However, since leaving Britain, there were fleeting moments when she had been aware of him as a man- that odd flash after the Quidditch match, for example- and she had to admit that as some of the layers were peeled away, there were as many possibilities as there were problems. _What you need to do_ , the voice of higher reason stated firmly, _is stop being such a big girl's blouse and speak with Severus before he decides you aren't worth the effort for friendship or anything else!_

For what felt like the hundredth time that day, she wished for Harry's company. Despite his generally positive outlook on life, he was no naïve nelly, and truthfully, he did a lot more thinking about the nature of Dark magic and the Pureblood cause than she had... not to mention relationships.

_And if Snape was correct in insinuating that Malfoy was trying to apologise by bringing the topic of hospitality traditions up… well, I should at least listen. If anything it will provide possible fodder for blackmail!_

Hearing a familiar giggle as she cleared a large hedge, Hermione smiled at the group of sunbathing students sprawled across the lawn. The entire contingent of Hogwarts' girls was gossiping with a crowd of Beauxbatons' students, and Charlotte Payton waved her over with a cheeky grin, patting the ground next to her in clear invitation.

"Professor Granger, what's communism?" she inquired with her customary cheerful aplomb.

Blinking at the blonde girl in surprise, Hermione lowered herself carefully to the grass, scrambling for an answer that wouldn't confuse the Pureblood. "Among other things, communism is a Muggle political theory derived from a man named Karl Marx that advocates economic equality through the elimination of private property."

"Oh." The girl looked back over to Emma Zabini and one of the French students. "That didn't really help, did it?"

"Perhaps if you can give me some context," Hermione suggested dryly, "I can better answer your question."

The entire group seemed to blush, and a few of the girls let out nervous titters. With a sigh, Emma Zabini finally explained. "We were comparing various euphemisms for being on your period, and several of them mention communists, but we don't know why that is. Alejandra," she said, gesturing to a dark haired girl, "…has been trying to explain it to us, but her English isn't great, and none of our French is good enough to follow the translations from Spanish."

Hermione bit back a hoot of humour. _Ahhh, the unexpected joys of cultural exchanges…_ "Well, that's easy enough. Since the French Revolution, the communist movement has used the colour red to symbolise 'the blood spilt of martyred workers who lead the movement,' I believe." Seeing the expressions around her, she chuckled again. "Now you've made me curious. What is the phrase?"

"In Spanish," Alejandra haltingly explained, "…we say 'andar navegando con Bandera Comunista'- you are sailing with the communist flag."

"We have a similar saying in Danish, too," another girl offered with a shy grin. "The communists are in the funhouse."

"I'm going to have to remember that one," Hermione laughed, trying to picture Harry's face if she ever told him that particular line. "I prefer the bog standard of being on the blob myself, or if I'm feeling particularly tetchy, shark week. Blood in the water and all that..."

One of the French girls gave an exaggerated shudder as the others giggled. "That is so… indelicate. I like what my mother has always said to me. 'Les Anglais ont debarqué'- the English are coming."

That earned her a round of snickers. "What are some others?" Hermione asked, curious.

"In Italy, we say that the cardinal is visiting."

"Swedish has a word- 'Lingonveckan', that means 'lingonberry week.' German has something similar, too."

"It's interesting," Hermione mused as the girls snickered, "…that all of these euphemisms are related to Muggle phrases. Do you know of any ones that are strictly magical?"

The group thought about it for a moment.

"My grand-mère always spoke about moon times, or of the red comet coming," a pale-faced girl noted. "Otherwise, we just say that the good news has arrived."

The first French student snorted. "Oui, good news indeed. "

A girl next to her nudged her with a salacious wink. "Especially when you can tell Léo that he doesn't need to worry about getting you a gift for mother's day, right?

"Oh, but he still has to get me gifts!"

 _And that is my cue to depart…_ Rising, Hermione brushed off her jeans. "Unless you have any further questions about communism, I will leave you ladies to your sunbathing."

* * *

Upon approaching the main carriage, Hermione saw that Severus and Malfoy were likewise outside enjoying the late fall sunshine. Drinks in hand, the men were sprawled about on newly conjured patio furniture, the sound of their arguing travelling across the garden as an indistinct, jocular rumble.

Snape saw her first and raised a challenging glass in her direction. "Care to join us, Professor? Lucius sweet talked Maxime into gifting us with some rather fine sangria, and Madame Gresham has kindly provided us with nibbles."

 _Well, Granger… are you prepared to face the music?_ Both wizards seem to sense her indecision, and Malfoy arched one blonde brow tauntingly. _Right. Will not be a wimp!_

"With an offer like that, how could I refuse?" she finally queried, pushing aside her misgivings and deciding that she had to at least try to make a go at it.

With an indolent wave, Lucius transformed an empty bottle into another lounge chair, and Snape poured her a drink. She eyed the paisley padding for a long moment, surprised at Malfoy's capable wandwork, not to mention the pattern choice.

"As you can see, Professor," he drawled, "…I'm not just another pretty face."

Rolling her eyes, she accepted a small plate of cheese and crackers from him. "Of all of the things I would accuse you of, simply being a pretty face is rather far down the list. Now, say a pretty face and something else…." She kept her tone deliberately light. To her relief he did not bristle at her words, choosing to smirk instead.

"Acknowledge his stunningly good looks, and he'll not quibble over the rest of it, never fear," Snape said dryly.

"Is that so?"

"Indeed," Malfoy retorted. "It's like complementing Severus' remarkable cunning or voice: do it correctly, and it grants one a free pass to say almost anything."

"Somehow I doubt that very much," Hermione murmured, trying to recall a time post-Voldemort that she'd seen the Headmaster susceptible to any form of flattery.

Settling further into the surprisingly comfy chair, Hermione took a sip of the wine and pondered how to continue; seising the moment now would be utterly Gryffindor-ish, and besides, she wanted to enjoy her wine… as well as a half of the company.

"I've just run into the girls," Hermione began conversationally, "…any idea what the boys are up to?"

"Quidditch," Snape replied. "Except Davies, of course. He's playing chess with some Russian prodigy and losing spectacularly by all accounts. What mischief are the ladies about?"

Taking another sip of her drink- an excellent white sangria with intense flavours of peach and almond- Hermione bit back a snort. "Among other things, discussing communism."

"Communism?" The word dripped from Lucius Malfoy's mouth as if it were something dirty; given the manner in which the topic had come around, Hermione supposed that it wasn't that far off the mark.

"Communism," she confirmed, returning his smirk with interest. "You are familiar with the notion, aren't you, Mr Malfoy?"

Before the blonde could speak, Snape cut in. "Oh, yes, he most certainly is. Thanks to a losing bet, I made him read the entirety of the Communist Manifesto- in German, no less. I then had the great pleasure of quizzing him on it until he achieved the level of 'Acceptable.'"

"And just what did you think of the theory?" Hermione asked Malfoy sweetly as if he were some ickle firstie delivering a book report.

"Karl Marx needed not just a firm boot up his arse, but an editor."

Observing the Pureblood's mulish expression, Hermione couldn't help but laugh. "Poor thing. How on earth did you survive the experience?"

"I bought another massive estate, of course." He sighed, still apparently aggrieved from the experience. "I suppose that such punishments are just part and parcel of having a best friend who not only fancies himself an educator, but whose father was a notorious labour organiser." Delivering the last line with a hint of malicious glee, Malfoy toasted Snape with his wine glass.

 _Snape's father was a Marxist?_ Hermione thought, trying to keep the shock off her face. _God, talk about switching from one type of radical to another… and I wonder why Malfoy is bring this all up?  
_

Snape's eyes turned cool, obviously not pleased with the other man for dropping that prime bit of personal history. Ignoring the lead, he spoke in cutting tones. "I don't merely fancy myself an educator. I am one by dint of spending the last twenty-five odd years trying to cram knowledge into countless generations of dunderheads, including your own."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Dunderheads? You make it sound like you were faced with dungeons overflowing with the lumpenproletariat."

"Ahh," Hermione interjected, not wanting things to get out of hand, "…I see you've spent some quality time with Crabbe and Goyle the younger, then."

Malfoy shrugged, unrepentant. "You may have a point there."

"Something I urge you to remember the next time my contract comes up with the Board," Snape muttered, pouring more wine and glowering at Malfoy for a moment. "Christ all mighty, Lucius, but lumpenproletariat? How long have you been waiting to sneak that little word into a conversation?"

"Since you forced me to learn it four years ago." His eyes gleamed, and Hermione wondered just what else the man was plotting. Sure enough, Malfoy continued his prodding after a brief pause. "Well, Severus? Are you going to educate Professor Granger about how you clawed your way free of the Great Unwashed Masses of the North, or must I?"

As much as she was intrigued by Malfoy's earlier bombshell, Hermione wasn't keen on Snape being forced to speak about his past; far better it come from him organically. But before she could think how to shift the conversation, Severus explained.

"I didn't exactly claw my way out… as Lucius so kindly revealed, my father was part of the red labour movement of the Greater Manchester area in the sixties. As a lorry driver, Tobias Snape was in a prime position to befriend both the mill workers and longshoremen that worked at the Port of Manchester. He was marginally successful until he got himself sacked and blackballed, but by then most of the mills were closing, and the Port wasn't far off either. However, as a consequence of his leanings, he forced me to memorise large swaths of leftist propaganda. It has only come in handy when playing scrabble or torturing Lucius."

A half-dozen questions sprang to mind, but Hermione opted for something lighter. "Well, that certainly makes me glad that my parents were only militant about flossing and brushing."

Severus relaxed as it became apparent that she wasn't going to pry, and Lucius evidently decided to stop his needling. "We are left with one obvious question, however- why in the name of Merlin were our poor, sheltered students discussing Communism?"

"The topic came up in a conversation about euphemisms, of course."

To her satisfaction, Malfoy couldn't resist digging further. "Euphemisms for…?"

"Menstruation."

His reaction was priceless: Hermione caught him mid-sip and the older man spat out a mouthful of Riesling. Snape let loose a rumbling chuckle, and Hermione couldn't help but smile proudly. "Oh, well done, Granger!"

"Communism was central to several of the phrases," she explained once Malfoy has stopped his sputtering, solicitously offering him a conjured napkin.

Severus steepled his fingers, adopting a faux-thoughtful mien. "Let me guess- phrases similar to the notion that 'Manchester's playing at home,' eh? Or perhaps a bit of 'maintenance on the red line'…"

"Yes," she confirmed, taking pleasure in Malfoy's purple features. "I will admit, my favourite new phrase has to be 'the communists are in the funhouse,' but 'sailing under the communist flag' comes in a close second."

Severus laughed again, the rich sound carrying a note of naughty enjoyment. "One could say that the expressions paint quite the picture."

"Don't they just? Alas, other than the obvious astronomical references, we were stymied in coming up with any that were exclusive to the magical world."

"Bella would often remark that it had come time to cull the mandrakes." Composure regained, Lucius attempted to appear suave, but the wine liberally splattering his ostentatious robes rendered it a failing endeavour.

"Given her predilections, the notion isn't that far off," Snape remarked tartly.

As if the conversation had summoned the shade of Bellatrix Lestrange herself, the temperature dipped as a cloud crossed the sun. _Shall I use this opening?_ Hermione wondered. _I can't imagine that I'll get any better chance than this, and to wait any longer would be cowardly…_

"Speaking of bloody terrors," she said, directing her words to Malfoy. "Several days ago you attempted to discuss the differences in English and French hospitality traditions, and I was not in a place to appreciate the finer... subtleties. I would like to continue that conversation if you would be so inclined."

He said nothing for a long moment, grey eyes gone inscrutable. For all that he played the dandified fop, the man was anything but, and Hermione had a flash of indecision about her chosen course. _Am I a fool for trying to bury the hatchet after all that he has done? Is a friendship with Snape really worth it?_

Naturally, the bloody man saw her sudden influx of doubts. But rather than take advantage of the situation to mock, her indecision seemed to steady him; apparently, he was no more comfortable with this truce than she was.

"I brought with me a book that has been in the family for over two hundred years," he finally stated, "…and if you would indulge me, I'll go and fetch it. It does the explaining far better than I."

 _He brought a book? Oh bollocks, Snape was right, he must have been planning this conversation prior to coming here. Can this get any more complicated? Well, at least there is little chance that this one is a Horcrux. I am relatively confident that Severus would skin him alive if he tried anything of that nature._ "I believe you are familiar enough with my bibliophile ways, Mr Malfoy, to know that I will find any tome of yours interesting."

With a terse nod, he rose and made for the main carriage. Shifting a look towards Severus, she found him fussing with the label on a wine bottle, appearing distinctly uneasy; had his hair been hanging loose, she had no doubt that it would be covering his face. Sensing her regard he glanced up, and in that instant, the fierce, blazing light in his eyes suddenly made her heart stutter before rocketing it into overdrive.

It was an expression that she couldn't quite put name to; there were elements of desire and yearning to be sure, but there was also something bleaker. _Disbelief? Has no one humbled themselves, even just a little for his sake?_

Her doubts and questions- of which there were many- receded into the background as the air around them sizzled. Indeed, Severus' naked display of emotion hit every one of her Gryffindor buttons, and Hermione couldn't tear her gaze away. The sentiment spoke to her, making her want to strap on armour and battle dragons for his sake, to prove herself worthy. It was an absurdly foolish notion to be sure, and he'd hardly welcome it… but now that she'd taken a peek behind his façade, she couldn't just let him be.

He wanted her, had even taken the risk of opening up to her. Was she interested? _I'm sure as hell not going to be a daft cow! If one look from him can do this much…_

Realising only belatedly that she was holding her glass halfway between her mouth and the table, she sat it down with a thunk. _Yes,_ she thought dazedly as Severus continued to stare at her, _yes, he is worth it._

Severus seemed on the verge of saying something, lips compressing as he carefully chose his words. "Thank you," he eventually said, voice quiet enough that had she not been staring at him, she would have missed it.

"I wouldn't want to risk impugning my reputation as a know-it-all," she replied, voice a tad unsteady. "After all, I've heard that Malfoy has a truly massive amount of books."

"Still the swot," he stated, the hint of humour defusing the moment.

"Why change when it's served me well?"

Malfoy reappeared suddenly with a leather satchel and several pairs of white gloves; handing her a set, he opened the bag and gently extracted a thick tome. Giving it an affectionate pat as he opened it, he revealed a beautifully vibrant illuminated cover page complete with the Malfoy family crest.

"This was written in 1631 by Aurore de Malfoi, and it became the definitive guide for not just household manners and customs, but estate protections as well…"

* * *

Listening to Lucius and Hermione debate an obscure lavatory spell ad nauseam was nearly as disconcerting as the fact that their truce had been called in order to make his life easier.

 _If this isn't a 'jumpers being worn in hell' moment, I don't know what is_ , Severus mused, sipping from a newly replenished wine glass.

It frankly astounded him to watch the two of them make peace; in his forty-odd years of life, he'd not had friends make that sort of decision. Merlin knew that Lily hadn't tried to see any of the Slytherins as anything other than irredeemably dark and undeserving of her friendship, and for his part, Lucius had never needed to play nice before as Minerva and the rest of the Hogwarts staff barely tolerated him on the best of days.

He knew what the action signified from Lucius: the man was his best friend after all, and other than Minerva, his closest confidant. From Hermione, he was less certain. They only seemed to get into these sorts of situations whilst drinking, but he thought that it might be more than a simple case of in vino veritas.

Sinking lower into his chair, Severus took in the improbable scene before him. The late afternoon sun was low in the sky, lending a rosy patina to everything it touched. Wild curls lit up like a Rembrandt, Hermione was stunning. Perhaps it was merely the wine that graced her with a squiffy sort of splendour, but he rather thought that it was his sentimentality finally getting the best of him.

For a dangerous moment, he let himself dream of what life might be like if this was his normal, if he could throw caution to the wind and take what he'd always dreamed of. A partner of his own… and perhaps, someday, a family. Per usual, Minerva had been correct- he was lonely, and oh did he have it bad for his Charms Professor.

 _Now what? It's painfully clear that I fancy Hermione_ , he thought, internally shuddering at the use of such a juvenile term, _and she apparently fancies me, at least a little bit. She would not be making this much effort with Lucius were that not the case. So what the hell do I do next? Carry on, I suppose, and proceed with the plan of getting to know her better…_

Hermione's voice interrupted his thoughts, and he jerked upright guiltily. "…don't you agree, Severus?"

Lucius was broadly smirking, having noted Severus' inattention. For her part, Hermione had leaned forward beseechingly and was all wide-eyed innocence, although her mouth was twitching with the effort to not smile. She was close enough to kiss, to nibble on lush lips and cup at the hint of cleavage that her v-neck blouse revealed. He could pull her onto his lap, and the thought of having the heat of her core pressing against his…

_Right. It appears I've gone past squiffy and firmly entered quite pissed. 'Firmly entered'? Oh, well done… you are very, very, pissed indeed!_

Aware that his silence was telling, Severus scrambled to say anything that wasn't complete tosh. "It would be rather imprudent of me to say."

Hermione made a moue of disappointment. "What a pity. Of the three of us, you are clearly the expert and I would think that you would be able to provide us with a snap judgement on the matter."

 _With a lead like that, it's got to be something potions related._ "Disappointing, I know," Severus drawled, letting his voice dip invitingly, "…but I do have my own reputation to think of."

A matching spark lit in her eyes, and he had a sudden wish that Lucius would be a clever chap and bugger off to somewhere far, far away- preferably whilst taking the students and any other bystanders with him.

"Your reputation, hmmm?" She knew that he hadn't the faintest idea what they were going on about and was taking great joy in it.

 _Might as well have some fun…_ "My reputation, yes. But for you, I might be willing to do a bit of… experimentation."

Severus wasn't aware that he could find a predatory smile charming, but the grin she bestowed certainly warmed him. "Well, in that case, you'd better go and fetch your potions kit so we can educate Mr Malfoy. Why the poor man thinks that wintergreen would have the same properties as mint in freshening draughts is beyond me… but then, I did have the far superior Potions Professor, didn't I?"

 _Finally, I get the question! Wintergreen and mint? Really? Is that all? Bloody good thing I managed to bungle my way out._ "You did that. Care for a friendly wager, Lucius?"

Giving him a look that was equal parts amusement and dismay, he shook his head. "Absolutely not. I shudder to think about what cruelty the two of you would devise together." Malfoy held his gaze, putting a particular emphasis on the last word.

_Together…_

It was a blessing, he knew, as well as an acknowledgement of the various subtexts that had played out in the afternoon's conversations. For the first time in a long while, he felt a welling of something suspiciously like hope. _Just maybe, if I am both smart and lucky, I could return to Hogwarts with far more than I left with. Or, more likely, everything will all go to shit in short order. Best to not tempt fate too much, old man… just enjoy what you have, and leave it at that for now._

Rising from his chair- no hint of a wobble, thank Merlin!- he offered her a hand. "Shall we go forth and carefully examine the properties of wintergreen and mint, Hermione?"

Without any hesitation, she grasped his hand and he levered her upwards. Naturally, he put a little too much force into the movement and Hermione ended up landing in his arms with a low giggle. She was gratifyingly soft, and the perfect height for…

"Ah, such felicity, this." Lucius' snide drawl broke the silence. "Not only do you get to prove both myself and a long-dead Malfoy ancestor wrong, but also have a chance to concoct a freshening draught that will do wonders for the current malodorous ambience. You both positively reek of wine, you know."

Still clutching at him, Hermione looked pointedly from Severus' rumbled, if pristine white button down to Malfoy's wine splattered robes. "Do we? I hadn't noticed."

* * *

It proved to be an amusing evening. Severus had found himself being more than a little handsy when demonstrating the standard proper slicing and stirring techniques to Hermione, but there had been no complaints. He went to bed a contented man, and for once his dreams were decidedly enjoyable.

After seeing Lucius off the following morning, Severus returned to the private carriage to find Hermione sitting at the table appearing glum. He had a brief flare of panic: had the light of morning- of sobriety- changed her mind?

Wordlessly, she had handed him his post and set about making tea. Noting the opened stack of letters sitting by her chair, he took a quantum leap and deduced that they were the agents of their misfortune rather anything he had done. _Two steps forward_ , he thought with sigh, _and one massive step backwards._

"What news is it then?"

She glanced over, and the expression in her eyes could only be termed as one of defeat. "I received a letter summoning me as a witness in Harry and Ginny's divorce."

"You expected that, did you not?"

"I did." Hermione grimaced. "But that doesn't make it any easier to take… honestly, I still can't believe that Gin seriously thinks that Harry and I have been carrying on an affair all this time. And yes, I wrote to the solicitor that you recommended," she told him, plucking a teabag out of the basket at random. "No, it's not all that. The real cherry on top of this morning was a short note from my mother."

He raised a brow.

"She requested that I not write as often, as they are travelling and it's an expensive hassle to get their mail forwarded to them. Moreover, the stress of wondering if an owl would be delivering a letter has completely ruined her enjoyment of Italy so far. Oh, and happy belated birthday."

Severus knew that her relationship with her parents was fraught with tension, but not that it was as bad as all that. _Christ, if they were that affectionate when she was a student, it's no wonder she was such a persistent teacher's pet…_

"I'm impressed that you managed to ruin her holiday from this far away. That takes a certain kind of talent."

She snorted. "Yes, well much like Malfoy, I'm not just another pretty face."

"I am sorry, Hermione," he told her, wondering what more he could say; it wasn't as if his familial relationships had been any better.

"As am I. It feels like every time I get my life pulled together, something else breaks free." Cupping the tea in both hands, she blew on the steaming surface, shoulders slumping.

"C'est la vie." That earned him a hard look, but it was the truth and they both knew it. "What would you have me say? It can always get worse, you know. At least this time you are dealing with metaphorical shit, and not literal…"

"Don't remind me."

"As much as it pains me to say this, think about the positives," Severus told her wryly. "If the Potter's marriage is that bad, then he is better off without his wife. Moreover, this entire fiasco could not have come at a better time for you. Not only are you absent from England, but a guest of Madame Maxime, you are far more protected than if we were at home." He shrugged, feeling awkward in his comforting; it had more often been Minerva's role, not his. "As for your parents… there are some gulfs we can never bridge, however much we wish to, and sometimes we must be content with only being able to see the other side."

Hermione sipped at her tea pensively. "I know… I just wish that things were easier between us. I wish… well, as you said, it doesn't really matter, does it? C'est la vie, indeed."

"It matters, Hermione. But know that you're not alone in your misery," Severus replied, busying himself with making his own cup of tea. "My Da hated me first on principle, and then later because I steadfastly rejected every tenant that he believed in. Even had I been a Muggle and not taken myself off to some bougie boarding school for most of the year, had I done what all of the neighbourhood lads did- tuned into the northern punk scene, stuck safety pins through every item of my clothing, and worked a series of dead-end jobs before getting some girl up the duff- it wouldn't have been enough because I lived my life for me, and not him."

She smiled a little at that. "Safety pins stuck through clothing, hmmm? Somehow I can't picture a certain Potions Professor dressed like that."

"That's because I was smart enough to know how stupid it looked. Mind you, I did end up with a rather shit tattoo, but that is a story for another time and place," Severus retorted mildly. "I will admit that I did come out of my youth favouring the colour black and with a strong liking for the Ramones and the Sex Pistols."

"Duly noted." Acting on impulse, Hermione stretched across the table and touched his forearm. "Thank you for listening, Severus. It's a shame we can't just wave our wands and make it all better, isn't it?"

He made a show of rolling his eyes. "We can. It's called the Imperius Curse."

"You know what I mean. Besides which, I thought that you weren't one for a spot of foolish wand waving."

"I'm not. There are several potions that I would recommend that are far more efficacious, not to mention will be far more likely to keep you out of Azkaban."

That got him a full laugh, and he was pleased with the change in Hermione's overall demeanour.

"So," she teased, "…to sum up, keep a stiff upper lip because it can always get worse, and if it does, there are potions that can fix the situation."

"Assuming no one is dead, yes."

She pursed her lips, expression harkening to a much younger Minerva. "Whatever happened to your boast of being able to put a stopper in death, Professor Snape?"

Severus let himself smirk, drawing the moment out. "Clearly, I've already used that one up. Now come along, Professor Granger. We must go and check on our charges before I'm forced to whip up any number of potions…"

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this was a bit of mix, wasn't it?
> 
> As always, I want to thank everyone who left comments on the last chapter. I dearly appreciate the many viewpoints that were shared; as a writer (and a person who lives to ask nosy questions!) that sort of conversation and debate is an absolute dream, and it really helps me to fine tune what I am doing. 
> 
> I do want to make it clear that Snape wasn't trying to excuse the violence that occured, or agreed with any of the Pureblood cause; he's trying to get her to think about the variegated shades of power and imbalances that propel prejudices into being. 
> 
> A massive hug to lena1987 who read a draft of this and assured me that it was not utter crap. 
> 
> 'Sealltainn dhomh dè bha air falach', is supposedly Scots Gaelic for "Show what has been hidden', at least according to Google translate. I'm sure it's butchered terribly, so if there are any Gaelic speakers out there who want to correct me, please do. The Robert Burns poem is from 'Tam o Shanter'.
> 
> The entire period conversation and euphemisms are based off a real-life experience I had when I was studying abroad; if you've got any other fun phrases, throw them at me- I dearly love colloquial expressions and the like!
> 
> If not clear from the context 'lumpenproletariat' is a fancy Marxist way of referring to a group of people as part of the 'unwashed masses' aka hopeless and unable to throw free from their capitalist bonds; likewise, there really was a strong Marxist/Socialist/Communist movement in the North of England during the 70's and 80's. 
> 
> Finally, I've just posted a quasi-one shot that I wrote based on one of the backstories in this chapater. It's called "A Whiff of Cordite", and takes place when Snape is freshly minted Death Eater. Snape has come back to Cokeworth to confront his (Marxist) father, and it plays with issues of class, family, and Pureblood/Muggle politics. Check it out and tell me what you think!
> 
> Wishing everyone happy reading a lovely fall!


	9. Que Sera, Sera

_15 November 2007_   
_Wizengamot Family Court, Ministry of Magic_   
_London_

The antechamber that Hermione sought refuge in was a profoundly claustrophobic space, the walls lined with dark wood and the air stinking nauseatingly of cigars and mothballs. Clenching her jaw tightly enough to risk cracking a tooth, she glared the second hand of her watch as it crawled slowly around the dial.

 _Bugger, bugger, bugger!_ she fumed, _I'm going to have to chance sneaking past the pack of jackals at the door or risk getting stuck in Britain another night. Maybe I could disillusion myself? No, I'd be found out for sure, and Merlin knows what would come out of my mouth at this point. Calling Ginny a 'petty, overindulgent cow,' under oath was bad enough…_

It would be at least fifteen minutes before the Veritaserum coursing through her blood would wear off, but Hermione had only twenty-five minutes to return to Hogwarts before her Portkey back to France activated; to say that the current situation had put her in fine pickle was no exaggeration.

Her time under oath as part of Harry and Ginny's divorce petition had started off poorly- despite reports to the contrary, she was not pregnant with Harry's love child, thank you very much!- and the questioning had only gotten progressively more distasteful from there. Ginny's barrister had been a vicious, rat-faced fuckwit in a third-rate wig who'd clearly enjoyed trying to take Hermione down a peg, and for her part, she'd spent the majority of her time on the stand plotting her revenge in minute detail.

Naturally, she had faced endless questions about the exact nature of she and Harry's relationship, including a thorough accounting of their time on the run chasing Horcruxes. If that hadn't been delightful enough, the interrogation then moved onto her supposedly licentious youth at Hogwarts. After being asked about her sexual conquests of Viktor Krum, Remus Lupin, and finally Hagrid (and that particular set of questions was going to require a vat of brain bleach to forget) Hermione had demanded that she be put under Veritaserum to prove her innocence. Thankfully, the presiding judge had stepped in at that point and required Ginny's barrister to prepare a list of ten questions; as Hermione had voluntarily agreed to dose herself, it was not to be open season.

As horrible as the questioning had been, watching Harry's face as she'd been forced to answer the litany of humiliating personal questions had been the worst part of the day; by the end, he appeared utterly sick, and could hardly make eye contact with her.

_I may not be able to strike back at Ginny because of the children, she vowed, but I will make that odious excuse for a barrister pay…_

Reflecting fondly on the book of Parisian female poisoners of the eighteenth century that Severus had just lent her, Hermione was startled to hear the doorknob rattle. _Fuck_ , she swore mentally, pulling her wand. _That better not be Rita Skeeter…_

It was not.

Lucius Malfoy swept in wearing sober navy robes devoid of both embellishment and pattern. The sheer overwhelming force of his personality hit her like a bucket of cold water, and Hermione was reminded uncomfortably of other Ministry meetings in the not so distant past. Fleetingly, she wondered if the man wore his more outré robes solely to irritate Severus.

"I am given to understand," he intoned with irritatingly precise diction, "…that you are currently under the effects of Veritaserum. Accordingly, I will not ask you any questions. I have no doubt that we would both be annoyed by your answers in any case."

"I'll not argue with you on that," Hermione said, clamping her mouth shut as the Veritaserum urged her to expand her answer.

"A first, I would think." Shaking his head mockingly, he continued. "Shockingly, I have not come here to trade barbs. One of the lesser-known perks of sitting on the Wizengamot is the ability to Apparate directly from the courtrooms. As such, I can take you back to Hogwarts without running afoul of that putrid pack of reporters currently besmirching the entrance."

 _He can get me out of here? Oh, brilliant… but I wonder how steep the price will be?_ "Then we've hit upon another first- I'm quite happy to see you," Hermione quipped, feeling genuinely grateful, belatedly wondering what had prompted the gesture.

"Aren't we…" Malfoy began and then paused, realising that he was about to ask a question. "We find ourselves lucky," he modified, scowling faintly. "The Headmistress informs me that there are also reporters waiting at the Hogsmeade Gate. With your permission, I will take us to the back entrance."

Hermione was on the verge of asking what he wanted for the favour when something about his posture stopped her. The tension rolling off him in waves was clear enough, as was the defensiveness; he expected her not to trust the offer.

_And a month ago I wouldn't have…_

Malfoy had changed over the years, that much was obvious. The menacing figure of her youth would not have been able to keep the pretence of civility up for so long, nor ever consider apologising to her. During their drunken tête-à-têtes, she had lost a good deal of her burning anger towards him, and it had become impossible to view him as a complete monster. To her shock, she had actually enjoyed some of their arguments and had found herself agreeing with him on several key issues. _Does this mean that I don't hate him anymore? That I've forgiven him? Christ but my world has gone all sorts of topsy-turvy!_

Malfoy broke into her wondering thoughts with an irritated huff. "Granger now is not the time for an existential crisis. If we get caught together in this ruddy closet…" The blonde grimaced disdainfully. "…well, 'shit storm' won't even began to cover it, and I have no wish to anger my wife in such a fashion. Stop dithering and give me your arm so we can depart."

With a jerk, she did as ordered. "The back gate, if you would."

"As you wish." Giving her a slight nod, he pulled her in closer. Hermione had only the briefest of moments to appreciate the luxurious fabric under her fingers before he plunged them into the compressive chaos of Apparition; in the space of three lurching heartbeats, they found themselves standing on the far shore of the Black Lake, the comforting bulk of Hogwarts looming off in the distance.

As she took the deep breaths needed to settle her stomach, Hermione couldn't help but notice the subtle lines bracketing Malfoy's eyes and mouth. The signs of age humanised him- reminded her of Severus, really- and she came to the uncomfortable realisation that she needed to decide how she was going to proceed; yet far, Malfoy had made all of the overtures and hard choices.

_So… it comes down to whether or not I believe in change- or in redemption. There is no doubt that Lucius Malfoy did horrible things in the past, but does that make him an evil man, or a man who committed evil deeds? Moreover, what gives me the right to decide that? It's not as if I'm some sort lily-white innocent, either..._

Malfoy hadn't moved a muscle, standing passively under her regard. There wasn't so much as a whiff of challenge in his gaze, nor any mockery. It was the fact that her opinion seemed to matter to him that finally solidified her thinking; still, one question remained.

"Would you have approached me had Severus and I not become friends?"

"Yes." Malfoy stepped back, clasping his hands behind his back. "If you remember, I have attempted to speak privately with you at the last three Governors' Balls."

"You damn near chased me all over the ballroom last year…" Hermione said, before clamping her mouth shut.

He graced her with an irksome smirk. "I did. By the end of the evening, I had decided to see how creative your escape strategies would become."

Hermione knew that he might be lying, or that his post-war actions had only been tempered by necessity, but she decided that it was time to move forward; to treat him as she wished to be treated. "Thank you. Not just for today, but for making an effort to speak about the past. Should you try to corner me in a ballroom in the future, I shall be more receptive."

"My life is now complete." He gave her another slight bow, but Hermione thought that she saw a touch of relief in his expression. Unexpectedly, his mien turned from sarcastic to serious. "For what it is worth, I am sorry. Not just for the violence that you experienced, but for the beliefs that I held for so long. It was... a slow descent into madness, and I let my pride and arrogance blind me to the truth of what I was supporting. That doesn't excuse it- any of it- but please understand, Professor Granger, my aim in life has always been to protect my family and those who I love. Whilst I will admit that I found you deeply irritating as a child and hated everything that you represented, never once did I wish you to be tortured and terrorised in my library."

"Not even in your dungeons?" she asked lightly.

His steel-eyed gaze did not waver. "No."

"Then we find ourselves in agreement once again." She chose her next words carefully. "I cannot apologise for how things began between us, but I can promise you that I will make an effort to learn more about the causes of the conflict and Pureblood culture. I will ask questions… and more importantly, I will listen to the answers."

He appeared amused by her reply. "Poor Severus. He thought you relentless enough as a student…"

Hermione offered him a smirk of her own. "True, but he might find some of my current methods of persuasion more enjoyable."

Lucius Malfoy laughed then, the golden sound surprisingly infectious. "I almost pity the man." With a lazy wave, he summoned his Patronus and sent it flying towards the Castle; the bright sunlight made it impossible to determine the exact form, although Hermione caught a glimpse of a long, lean body and large paws.

"That was shockingly leonine for a Slytherin," Hermione remarked slyly.

"I will never understand why people persist in thinking that my Patronus must be either a snake or a peacock. "

"Really? You haven't the faintest idea why people might favour those particular animals?"

A crack interrupted any reply, and Minerva suddenly appeared in a flurry of tartan and icy disapproval.

"Mr Malfoy," the older woman acknowledged, lips thinning as she took out her wand and began casting the spells to allow Hermione entry.

"Headmistress."

In a matter of seconds, a shimmering door appeared in the air and Minerva gestured her forward. "You've less than ten minutes until the Portkey activates, Hermione."

"Thank you again, Mr Malfoy," Hermione murmured as she crossed through the school wards.

"Thank you." His mouth twitched, and she saw a hint a mischief enter his gaze as he turned towards the Headmistress. "I feel the need to warn you, madam. Your Charms Professor is currently labouring under the effects of Veritaserum. Distressingly, any interrogation will have to wait."

 _Oh, that was neatly done!_ Hermione repressed a snicker at the vexed look that briefly flashed through Minerva's eyes. _He's saved me from not just discussing today's events, but the changes occurring between Severus and me…_

In the resulting silence, one of Minerva's eyebrows arched high enough to almost be comical. "Is that so? How… thoughtful of you to inform me."

"As a Governor, my duties extend to not just the protection of the students, but the staff as well." Lucius' retort was positively smarmy. Then his attention flipped back to her, and Hermione knew she was in for it. "Do take care of Severus, Professor Granger. He ranks only behind my wife and child in importance." Without waiting for her reply, the man spun in a ripple of expensive robes and was gone.

 _Bollocks!_ she thought, feeling a blush coming on. _With that comment, Minerva's going to know something is up for sure…_

Indeed, the older woman's hands had gone to her hips and she gave Hermione a rather peeved stare. "And so it appears that I am to be denied even the most basic of news…"

"I'm sure the evening paper will have a full accounting of the day's events."

Minerva snorted and thrust her arm out with ill grace. "You know that's not what I'm interested in hearing about."

"I'll write you," Hermione said dryly and braced herself against the disorientation of Apparition.

* * *

In the end, she'd had only a few minutes to compose herself before once again being flung into nothingness; landing in the dark of Madame Maxime's outer chamber she stumbled badly and nearly fell to her knees.

_I am so ready for this day to be over…_

Head aching abominably from the combined effects of Veritaserum and travel, Hermione made her way back to the train. Halfway through one of the innumerable ornamental gardens, she stumbled upon a young couple snogging passionately on a bench. The girl's flame-coloured locks seemed to draw in the last rays of the dying sun; with that reminder of the past, the emotions of the day finally caught up to her.

Fighting back a flood of weary tears, she turned down the path that would lead to the Express. _Why?_ she mentally railed, _why did it have to end like this? We were all supposed to be so happy…_ Taking several measured breaths, she worked to calm herself; it wouldn't do to lose it like some homesick firstie when nothing about the situation could be changed. _A headache potion and then off to bed, I think. If I attempt any more than that, I'll end up a maudlin mess or screaming my rage out at the stars._

Reaching for the door handle of the private compartment, she almost jumped out of her skin when it swung open upon its own accord, revealing Severus.

He wore a satirical smile and toasted her with a flute of sparkling champagne. "To publicly and thoroughly skewering 'petty, overindulgent cows'," he intoned gravely. The sardonic recitation of her earlier statement was just outrageous enough that she laughed, although the sound came out a touch shaky.

"Were it that easy to vanquish my foes…" she muttered, wincing a bit as the full memory of what she'd said on the stand came flooding back to her; it wasn't until the Veritaserum had stripped her of all control over her words that Hermione had realized how much she'd grown to disliked Ginny.

He seemed to effortlessly read her mood, and his attitude altered accordingly. Putting the champagne down, Severus reached for a small blue phial of headache potion sitting on the table and offered it to her instead. "Did it go that terribly then? Lucius seemed to think that you acquitted yourself well."

She shrugged, taking the bottle and knocking it back in one swallow. "As well as could be expected, I suppose. I knew it was going to be a highly unpleasant experience. In some ways, it was nice to be able to vent my spleen at Ginny in such a way that I could not be blamed. Her barrister was the one asking the questions, after all."

Solicitously, Severus traded the empty potion bottle for the bubbly. Deciding that being lady-like was entirely overrated, Hermione quaffed the second drink in short order. The combined effects hit her promptly, and she let out a muted exhalation as the world seemed to blur around her. _God, yes…_ she thought. _A quiet evening lost in oblivion is precisely what I need…_

Glancing up to Severus, she saw that his face had fallen into neutral lines. He was standing near enough that she could smell the traces of his woodsy cologne and feel the faint heat from his body. Swaying slightly, she noted that he was wearing the rich blue jumper that looked as soft as a cloud and she had long wished to stroke; in that instant, all she wanted to do was lean forward and wrap her arms around his lean waist.

_I just want a bloody hug. Only one. That isn't too much to ask, is it?_

If he had been Harry, she wouldn't have hesitated. But he wasn't Harry, and she wasn't sure where the boundaries of their ever-shifting relationship were. _Does Severus even like to hug?_

"Hermione?" Severus queried, and she became aware that she'd left off speaking too long. She felt herself growing absurdly sniffly and had to look down, lest he see how close she was crying.

"Can I have a hug?" Apparently, the Veritaserum wasn't quite finished with her; as soon as the question fell out of her mouth, she flushed hotly. Mortified with how needy she sounded, Hermione threw her hands up. "Sorry. Forget I said that…"

But before she could do more than step back, Severus gently snagged her hand and drew her in. "For the record," he said softly, "…I like being wanted."

And then he hugged her.

It was utter bliss. His arms came around her, pulling her to his chest with just the perfect amount of pressure, and Hermione discovered that his jumper was indeed as soft as it appeared. Giving a little sigh, she relaxed into his warm embrace, comforted by the reassuring sound of his heart beating solidly under her ear. He didn't fidget, or seem at all uncomfortable as they stood together; instead, one hand slowly stroked a soothing pattern across the small of her back.

Her world steadied. Rather than push the sentiment of the day away once again, Hermione let herself feel all of the grief and anger that had stewed under the surface, knowing that she was safe.

"You are a champion hugger, Severus," she told him after a minute, voice muffled by the jumper.

His chuckle, deep and rolling, both felt and heard, was a sensory revelation. "It's a two-person sport, you know."

"Still…"

Pulling back slightly, he cupped her chin with a callused hand. For a long moment he stared down at her, an unfamiliar tenderness playing across his features as he took in her restored composure. "C'est la vie, Hermione."

She smiled, letting her hand slide up until it covered his heart. "And Que sera, sera?"

"Precisely."

Then the air changed between them, no longer placid or soothing; Hermione became aware just how nice the firm chest under her fingers felt, and had the pleasure of seeing Severus' pupils dilate with a sentiment other than tenderness. A kiss seemed to hang in the air, and she found herself shivering slightly in anticipation.

_How I want this man…_

Unexpectedly, the delicate moment was broken; although he didn't step away, Hermione registered the change in Severus' demeanour, the neutral veneer returning.

_Why did he stop? Surely he can't be uncertain of his welcome…_

"Come eat," he said by way of explanation, dropping his hand. "It's been a long day, and you've just down two rather strong intoxicants."

Implicit in the statement was his reluctance to take advantage of her inebriated state; given the strength of her feelings, however, Hermione wondered if he shouldn't be more concerned with her taking advantage of him. _Of all the times to turn the gentlemen… still, it's probably for the best. A month ago we were hardly speaking to each other._

"One would almost think you were trying to get me drunk," she teased, trying to let him know that she wasn't offended at his choice to back off.

"I am, but not for the obvious reasons." He gestured her towards the table, and for the first time, Hermione saw that it was set for supper. "I believe I have mentioned to you that I am a patient man, and patient I shall be."

 _A good answer, but it does raise an important point…_ "And if I don't wish to be patient?"

Her tart question elicited a smirk from him. "Then we have that discussion when neither of us has been drinking, nor operating in crisis mode for the better part of a week."

"If that's the criteria, that blessed day might be further off than either of us would like, you know."

Severus chivalrously pulled out a chair for her before taking a seat across the narrow table. "I am quite positive that is already the case."

* * *

As Severus picked up the carving knife, he worked to cover the flood of emotions swirling around him. The wonderfully irritating woman in front of him had thrown him for a loop any number of times over the last several weeks, and tonight was no exception.

His day had proved to be a useless one, with his attention wandering time and time again to how Hermione was fairing at the Wizengamot. It should have annoyed him, the constant worrying over another person and their problems, but it didn't. Truth be told, it felt nice. It felt… invested. And then she'd come back seeking not his protection or vengeance, but comfort. She hadn't wanted him to solve her problems; Hermione had merely wanted a hug.

_A two-person sport, indeed…_

Ten years ago, a similar situation would have thrown him into a discomforted lather. But now? Now he was just intensely grateful that he hadn't screwed matters up beyond fixing, that he had this chance to build something that wasn't contingent on spy craft and death.

_I will not let this pass me by!_

Looking at the beautiful woman sitting across from him- and he was rather enjoying the speculative approval in her gaze as she watched him slice the roast chicken- Severus vowed that he would not waste a second more of this trip. If he failed, it would not be from lack of trying.

"White, or dark?" he asked, deadpan.

Biting her lip, Hermione worked to cover her amusement. "Breast, please."

Obligingly, Severus let his regard wander south, and was rewarded with her blush. "Determined to torture me, hmmm?"

Recovering, she blinked coquettishly. "I have no idea what you mean. I just prefer breast meat."

"Don't we all…" He was incredibly tempted to lean across the narrow table and kiss her senseless, but Severus' inherent caution surfaced yet again; he wanted Hermione to choose him not in the heat of the moment, but in the cold calm of an ordinary morning.

Her gaze hadn't left him, and some of her humour shifted into understanding. "Ron and I…" she paused, clearly trying to pull her thoughts into coherency. "We just sort of fell together after the final battle. Things were incredibly chaotic, and we had lost so many friends… it was the textbook definition of seeking a shelter in the storm."

"Many expected that the two of you would end up together," Severus remarked, passing her a plate with the requested breast meat. _And what an utter disaster and waste it would have been!_

"So did we. And despite the differences, it worked for a while, at least until it became painfully clear that we wanted utterly separate things out of life. Quite honestly, had we not jumped into a relationship so quickly I'm not sure that we would have started dating in the first place. Merlin knows Ron certainly latched on Lavender without any hesitation."

"I have always maintained that the words 'daft' and 'pillock' don't even begin to describe the youngest Mr Weasley," he said with a disdainful sneer, recalling what a leech the boy had been in his classes.

"That may be true, but I prefer to think of the end of our relationship as a good thing. One could say that I not just dodged a hex, but a bloody barrage of them. Could you imagine the two of us married?" With a wry smile, she poured herself a glass of wine and took a sip. "What I'm trying to say, Severus is that I understand wanting to tread cautiously. I may whine a bit, but I can be patient as well."

How well she already knows me… "Thank you. It is not… lack of interest that holds me back. While I am not adverse to being a 'shelter in a storm' as you so aptly put it, I do have a healthy enough male ego to wish for that not to be my only inducement."

"From where I am sitting," Hermione told him saucily, "…that particular concern should not be on your list of worries."

It was his turn to fight back a smile, and Severus knew he must look the part of a smug fool.

"Speaking of healthy male egos, was it your idea or Malfoy's to fetch me from the Wizengamot today?"

Spearing a potato, Severus shrugged. "Thank Lucius for the notion. He is occasionally able to think up a good idea without assistance from me."

"It was very kind of him."

"He has his moments."

"Yes, he does." Severus did not miss her meaning, and he wondered if Hermione's tacit acceptance of Lucius would change the way the rest of the Hogwarts staff treated his friend.

"He apologised properly today."

That did surprise him; Lucius could have let matters lie rather than take the harder path. "Poor man, having to abandon all cunning and guile."

"I wouldn't pity him too much were I you. I promised him that I would ask you plenty of questions about Pureblood politics and the war."

Her statement effectively punctured the euphoric bubble of the evening. _Don't forget, old man, that your best might not be enough. Just by dint of being you, you may have lost this before it began._ "Hermione…" he began, the food in his belly souring, "The answers to the questions you seek aren't pretty. Nor do the causes excuse all our crimes. Lucius and I… we were full of hate. Full of fire. We weren't merely misguided youths messing about. We knew what we doing and we gloried in it…"

Hermione's expression firmed, lips pursing in a way reminiscent of Minerva. "You are not that man now, and you have actively fought against those beliefs. Moreover, Albus Dumbledore was hardly a flawless beacon of goodness and light, either. I want to listen, Severus. I want to learn. While I might not always agree with you, it is important to at least know the other side." She reached across the table and took his free hand, giving it gentle squeeze before linking their fingers together.

"Hearing my answers may change your mind." He could hardly get the words out and focused solely on the way their hands intertwined. _Please…_

"I doubt it."

The silence between them grew, and despite her confident words, Severus could feel his doubts- hell, his fears- grow by the minute. _How can she accept my crimes when I still haven't?_

"Severus," Hermione commanded, waiting until he glanced up to continue, "We don't need to get into it tonight, or even tomorrow. I too can be patient."

A bit of his black humour returned, pointing out how much their roles had reversed over the course of their conversation. "And Que, sera, sera?"

"Precisely." Her tone was warm, and he took as much comfort from it as he dared. "Now eat before your food goes cold…"

* * *

_3 December 2007_

Several weeks later, Hermione found herself dressed up and attending a yet another formal dinner in the Great Hall of Beauxbatons. Severus sat next to her, idly chatting with the Beauxbatons Arithmancy professor. A miracle of all miracles, he actually appeared to be enjoying himself, and Hermione wondered if she'd ever totally understand him.

For all that he had to be pushed onto the Hogwarts Express, the man had taken to their trip like a Bogart to a dark closet. _Really_ , she thought, _his motto should be 'go big or go home'!_

Just in the past month alone, there had been a sea of changes in him, some small and some not. While Severus could still be a sarcastic bastard, he had also made a concerted effort to be available when the students had problems or issues. And while no one would ever accuse him of being a social butterfly- indeed, even an extrovert- he had ably picked up Hermione's slack in the realm of public gatherings.

In private, he had started to open up about his youth, even when her questions had obviously made him uncomfortable. However, Hermione had not pressed him for all the gory details as she might have done in the past; safe from the prying eyes of both Britain and Hogwarts, she was determined to tread carefully. And truthfully, as messy as her own private life currently was, it was nice not to rush things.

_Not mention we are both hip deep in teaching and chaperoning duties; it's not as if we sit around all day eating bonbons and having heartbreakingly intense conversations while trying not to snog each other silly…_

Watching his mouth quirk into what passed for a public smile, she took in most the apparent change- his wardrobe. Gone were the high-collared, many-buttoned, black frock coats and vests. Instead, he sported far more modern robes that could almost pass for Muggle or were actually Muggle items, like her favourite blue jumper. Odder still, at least to her, was the fact that his wardrobe was not all strictly black. Tonight, for example, his robes were of a rich charcoal. He even kept his hair pulled back the majority of the time, and much to her private amusement also continued the tradition of pink elastics.

_And if you sometimes sneak glances at his bum… well, a girl has to have something nice to think about occasionally!_

"…would you agree, Professor Granger?" the man in question drawled, clearly aware that she had not been paying the least bit of attention.

"It would be rather imprudent of me to say, Headmaster," she responded, hoping that he would let her off the hook with the reuse of one of his lines.

His dark gaze sparkled with sardonic humour, and he obligingly fed her the lines. "It's a pity that Master DuBois has never spent any time in a British boarding school; he might have a far different opinion of our pedagogical methods then."

"Then again," she noted dryly, "…he might not. I will admit, seeing the structure of French education has provoked some thought for me."

The Frenchman grinned good-naturedly, "Ahh, but of course it has! We have done away with so many of the medieval traditions that you all still cling to, and it has changed thinking for the better. The British mind is bright, but I can't see how your system of schooling and apprenticeships can really prepare the contemporary witch or wizard for the flexible nature of modern society…"

A pompous, nasally voice interrupted, and she inwardly winced. "I have been saying the same thing for ages. The English system- if you can even call it that- is very backwards. Why, I can't even remember the last time someone from the UK even competed in a duelling championship, more or less placed."

Hermione fought back a stab of irritation at the newcomer to the conversation. Fabrizio Buffone, the current world number one seeded duellist, had come to Beauxbatons several weeks earlier to ostensibly teach a short seminar on tactics for their upper years students. She rather thought it was all a prop to his considerable ego. The man had spent the entire evening pontificating on his own prowess, and Hermione was unpleasantly reminded of a more aggressive Gilderoy Lockhart.

"Given," she said coldly, "…that the majority of British Duellists were killed due to the Voldemort Conflict, it is hardly surprising that they could not find time to nip out of the country for a bit of useless sport." Asshole!

"Likewise," Snape continued, his voice a perfect foil to hers, "…it is rather difficult to make sweeping educational changes when you are in the midst of a twenty-year civil war."

"Bah," Buffone dismissed both of their statements with a poncey wave of a manicured hand "…your duellists couldn't have been that good if they all got themselves killed in some sort of petty regional conflict, now can they? As for the rest, it only illustrates your uncivilised approach…"

Hermione put her napkin down, seeing red. Next to her, Snape had gone completely still. He raised one elegant eyebrow, and she gave him a subtle nod; whatever he was planning, she would back whole-heartedly.

"Champion or no, I could thrash you, wandless." Snape intoned the words with icy precision, bringing all the conversation in the room to a rapid halt with the bold challenge. "Moreover, so could my Charms Professor. In a real fight, I doubt you would make it past the opening salvo."

The other man put down his wine glass with a thump, turning as red as the liquid splashing out. "You think so? Why I've fought in hundreds of matches against all manner of foe. If you had bothered to read anything about my history, you would not be so foolish to make such an idle boast."

Snape smiled then, a predators' flash of teeth and promise, and Hermione wasn't the only one fighting back a shiver. _Does that daft pillock even know what the Death Eaters were? God, if Snape were looking at me like that, I'd wet myself as I tried to run for cover!_

"You and your apprentice against myself and Professor Granger. Open Field Course. No Unforgivables, naturally…"

The Italian leaned back in his chair, a grating chortle filling the air. "Oh, marvellous. I shall demand a public apology for your idiotic insinuations after I have won. Maxime," he called, "…when can you ready your field?"

* * *

The dinner dissolved soon after.

"Forgive me," Snape said quietly as they walked back to the Express, "…if I took your approbation a step too far."

"Better a formal challenge then me leaning across the table and decking him one over the pudding."

She could see his smirk in the moonlight. "Oh, I don't know about that. Draco whined for a solid week after you hit him. It took quite the glamour charm to hide that one, let me tell you."

"Poor little ferret…" Her smile matched his. "Violence may not be the answer, but it does occasionally feel good. Anyway, I don't mind a bit of a distraction. I'll simply picture him wearing Rita Skeeter's face."

"Do remember, no Unforgivables, Professor Granger."

"I'll try to keep that in mind. Just how good is Buffone, anyway?"

"From the training sessions I've seen, he's decent enough. Plenty of finesse and glitzy moves. But he's been riding on his reputation for quite awhile now, and seems to be lacking much power behind his castings."

"So," she asked drolly, "…what's the plan, boss?"

"Other than beat them into a bloody pulp?" With a dramatic flourish, he opened the door of the train and gestured her in.

"Other than that, yes."

"He's trained his apprentice to imitate his style almost exactly, which means they have the same strengths and weaknesses… whereas you and I have very different styles and are, I hope, far more balanced as a team." He smirked again, a cocksure, confident expression that was almost boyish. "My power and experience. Your finesse and shields. It'll be like taking candy from a baby."

* * *

"I hate you," Hermione hissed through clenched teeth, pacing wildly in the small confines of the pre-match tent. "Five-fucking-thousand people, Snape. The French, British and Italian Ministers of Magic. Over a hundred members of the press. A ruddy tent! And Minerva had the temerity to put a thousand galleon bet on us!"

"Of course she did. It would be highly illegal for either of us to do so." Snape sat slouched in a low chair, nonchalantly flipping his wand through his fingers and looking supremely unconcerned.

It had taken three days to get the match organised; because Buffone was a ranked duellist, the World Duelling Organization had to be involved, and they had required both a sport certified field and room for spectators before allowing the match to go forward. As a result, Maxime had adjusted the Beauxbatons Quidditch Pitch for the fight and had opened up the stands to the general public. Much to her horror, the entire event had taken on the air of a medieval fair, with hordes of bystanders flooding the grounds.

"Catch," Snape said laconically and tossed a small bag at her. Diving forward wildly, Hermione caught it barely in time. With cold, sweaty hands, she opened it up to find a half-dozen elastics, the bright pink colour seeming to mock her.

"Pull your hair back and calm down," Rising, he stretched languidly.

With an angry snap, she pulled at her hair and blinked back tears. At first, the duel had seemed like a lark, but as the attention and pressure grew, Hermione had become increasingly uncomfortable; she had never enjoyed fighting like the boys had. "You don't understand how much I hate this sort of thing."

A rustle of darkest wool heralded Snape's arrival. "You're right, I don't. I've loved a good rumble since I was a small child. It was the only way I was able to distinguish myself until I reached Hogwarts. And once at the Castle… well, I think you know enough of that story."

"But," he said, and placed a warm finger under her chin, forcing it up. "…while you might hate this, necessity has ensured that you are also rather talented at it."

Mulishly, she stayed silent, shifting her gaze away from his.

"Hermione, how many times did you face the Dark Lord?"

Surprised at the question, she finally looked up at him. "Directly? Only twice."

"Only twice…" A wry eyebrow went up. "And how many of those times did you get killed?"

"I didn't…"

"No, you did not. Despite being a child, you bested the Dark Lord and his followers twice and lived to tell the tale. But you've fought far more than just him; do you remember how many Death Eaters you stunned during the Battle at the Ministry?"

"I… no, I don't." Hermione swallowed, feeling a blush race over her cheeks.

"Both Nott and Rabastan, and that occurred after tricking Umbridge into having a short holiday with the Centaurs."

His black gaze was hypnotic, a calm surety radiating from him. "This will be fun, I promise. Your life isn't on the line, and you have far more experience and skills now than you ever did. I have every faith that you will exceed all expectations tonight."

The tension within Hermione loosened, and she took a deep breath in. Belatedly, she realised that he was holding her hand, and her mouth went dry at the little intimacy; they had deliberately shied away from anything physical. _He could bloody well sell coal to a miner in Newcastle…_ she thought dazedly as the heat of his hand warmed hers.

"Severus… do you really believe that?"

"Yes, Hermione, I do." There was no hesitation in his velvety voice.

A polite cough broke the tableau, and they both turned. It was the referee come to fetch them for the start.

"Are you ready?" Snape asked, his thumb lightly stroking the top of her hand.

She took another deep breath. "Yes, I am."

"Good." He gave her hand a final squeeze, and they walked out of the tent together.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re-introducing a bit of plot is fun, isn't it?
> 
> Mad props to all the brilliant and lovely people who have continued to follow this story throughout my revisions; I only hope that the quality of writing is worth it! 
> 
> Two shameless plugs... I've started posting what I think is one the best stories I've ever written. It's called "With Nothing On My Tongue", and it's a Snape-centric story that I wrote for the 2017 round of the LJ Snapecase (https://snapecase.livejournal.com). In my head-canon, Snape played the piano, and this story traces the course of his life through song and music (lol, but not like a musical, I promise!); it was written as a homage to Leonard Cohen and Alan Rickman following their deaths. 
> 
> The 2018 round of Snapecase is currently open and accepting entries, and I encourage everyone to check it out. Some of the best fun-- and frankly, best writing-- I've had in this fandom has come from participating in the various LiveJournal fests, and if you've been looking to dip your toes into writing, this is a great place to start. It's super supportive community, and entries don't have to be long- the minimum is only 1000 words. There is also the option to produce art if that is your jam! The stories aren't due until 3 December, and you don't have to be a member of LJ to join. Come play with us!


	10. A Dance With the Dark

_Warning: This chapter contains graphic violence beyond the aforementioned duel. This story is rated M for a reason._

* * *

_7 December 2007_

_Beauxbatons_

The unseen crowd was a low rumble in the distance, like the breaking ocean just out of sight.

As the wave of noise washed over them, Hermione tensed slightly, but her stride forward didn't falter. Severus felt another little niggle of guilt at having selfishly pushed her into this performance; her chosen field for competition had always been that of the mind, not the physical. But for all that she had just been a nervy mess in the tent, the woman next to him seemed calm and collected as they marched to the duelling grounds. It pleased him. _Make no mistake_ , he thought a touch smugly, _this will be a performance rather than a competition; there is no way that I—that we—will lose to that puffed-up Italian popinjay, even if it has been a decade since I've last properly duelled, and she just as long._

From the corner of his eye, he saw Hermione take in a measured breath, sharp chin jutting out as she did so. It amused him, that small motion of belligerence, and also prompted a somewhat uncomfortable flood of recollections of other times he had observed her doing so.

_Miss Granger, aged twelve, fibbing through her lamentably large teeth as she stood next to the body of an unconscious troll. 'I went looking for the troll because I – I thought I could deal with it on my own – you know, because I've read all about them...'_

_Miss Granger, aged thirteen, lying petrified and still as death on an infirmary bed. Despite her distinct lack of animation, her posture had screamed of determination. She'd had been biting her lip in fear, yes, but the stubborn line of her jaw and outstretched mirror told another tale…_

_Miss Granger, aged fourteen…_

Sixteen years later, and his world was a dizzyingly different place. Miss Granger was a student no more, and Severus was no longer stuck in the role of spy and despotic disciplinarian. Indeed, the cascade of changes in their relationship over the previous months had left him breathless for any number of reasons, and Severus wondered if he'd ever really catch up; still, it wasn't as if he was complaining. His fingers tingled pleasantly in the aftermath of cradling her delicate hands within his own, and the memory of her faith in him burned like a good scotch. Had they not been interrupted by the referee, Severus would have broken his own rules to kiss her.

 _Just a little more patience; just a little more time_ , he promised himself … _but first, you need to show her how fun this particular kind of sport can be!_

They finally emerged onto the grounds, and the gathered crowd gave a welcoming shout. Severus spotted Buffone at the other end of the arena, preening and prancing about like one of Lucius' absurd peacocks. The man's apprentice was more subdued, holding his Master's bags with an ill grace, and Severus almost felt bad for the public drubbing the unsuspecting man was about to receive.

"Gods," exclaimed Hermione suddenly. "He's even worse than Lockhart, isn't he?" As if to prove her point, Buffone whirled dramatically, causing his embroidered cloak to swirl and dance about like a bullfighter's. Severus let out a low laugh; that hadn't been a connection that he had made, but now that she had pointed the comparison out, he couldn't unsee it.

"I deeply enjoyed thrashing Lockhart," he told her, checking the tightness of his bootlaces a final time. "And I'm going to enjoying doing the same to Buffone." _Moreover, I'm not going to merely be content with thrashing him_ , he vowed, feeling the darker edges of his magic swell to life. _I'm going to utterly humiliate him. He'll rue his words concerning the talents of the British… and if it allows me to show off for Hermione, all the better._

"Remember the plan—we aren't going to try and outwit or out-finesse Buffone in the first part of the match. I want to overpower him with the type of spells and hexes that the average Hogwarts O.W.L. student has mastered; I want him to be furious when he realises that we are not taking him seriously as a fighter."

"Right," Hermione acknowledged softly, some of her anxiety surfacing again.

Her distress cut through some of his anticipation, and he briefly touched her elbow. "You don't have to do anything other than keep our shields up. If you find that you want to have a bit of fun beyond that, then by all means, do. But you don't need to worry. I could beat him by myself should it come to that."

As hoped, the subtle challenge prodded her temper, and she abruptly focused her irritation back on him. "Don't get ahead of yourself, Headmaster. You won't be the only one covered with glory by the end of this match."

"Excellent," he purred and had the satisfaction of watching her amber eyes light up with a different sort of fire. "I look forward to seeing and experiencing your magic, Hermione."

Her mouth curved into a wry smile. "As do I."

* * *

The first curse thrown by Buffone was of the dark and esoteric variety, conjuring up a nest of grey vipers that launched themselves at Snape with an over-the-top chorus of hissing. Snape had to force himself to not roll his eyes at the ham-handed tactic. _Points, I suppose, to Buffone for actually doing a bit of research into our backgrounds_ , he thought, turning the snakes into comically coloured snake balloons with a flick of a wrist, _but really? Snakes? I'm a fucking_ Potions _Master. Does he have any idea how many formulas require serpents? I got over that phobia years ago!_

_Keep your wrist loose for the figure eight…_

The raw burn of magic that ran through Snape was a heady, intoxicating thing, and he realised it had been years since he had fed that particular beast; as a sense of exhilaration filled him, he decided that it was high time to start a proper duelling club at Hogwarts. _After all, our champions have to come from somewhere, don't they? Hell, I can start with our students here. They've certainly got the talent for it._

_And lay on the power, now!_

As the duel settled into a pattern of back and forth castings, he smirked as the Italian grew obviously frustrated that his casts were being countered with minimal effort. Buffone wasn't bad—clearly, he had to have some skill to be considered the number one seeded duellist—but there were enough visible flaws to exploit the man quite easily. While he did not make the mistake of telegraphing his moves and tended to use non-verbal castings, his apprentice lagged behind in both areas. Given that Buffone was trying to meld the man in his own image, it was easy enough to extrapolate what he might do by the behaviour of his junior.

_That's right, move forward you idiot! You think that you can pin us in a corner?_

Snape's actions made it clear that he was only humouring the other duo; as Buffone threw a series of increasingly complex hexes at them, he countered with spells of a decreasing level of difficulty. The crowd picked up on it and began to jeer, which only served to make the other man more furious. Of course, Severus had another reason for limiting his spells to that which could be found in children's textbooks. He was a Death Eater—a known Dark Wizard—and he did not want any of that taint to be reflected on Hermione; should something go poorly in this match, he wanted to make sure that he would not be spending time in the Bastille.

_If I'm going to be tied up, let it be in Hermione's bed rather than in a Frenchman's gaol…_

A sizzle of bright gold magic suddenly came from his left, and he smiled as Hermione loosened up enough to join the fray. Her shields were truly a thing of beauty and strength, and he swore that he could sense her affection and determination in their construction. As if detecting the direction of Snape's wandering thoughts, Buffone flung out an obscure Grecian impotence hex; it hit Hermione's shields with a dull splat, the repulsive brown colour quickly subsumed by amber.

_Getting personal, are we? As you wish…_

Aiming for the ground at Buffone's feet, he sent out a rapid Reducto, followed by an Aguamenti: in less than two seconds, he had created a sizeable and murky mud puddle. Timing it between blasts, Severus waited for the apprentice's shields to falter, and then flicked a wave of dirty muck at both men.

They had not been expecting a threat so mundane, and Severus had to bite back a laugh at the sight of them dripping with mud; Buffone would find it far harder to flutter about with a soaking cape.

 _Enough faffing about_ , he decided, _I do believe that it's time to go for the jugular…_

* * *

The formal salutes and first several minutes of the match passed in a jumble of colour and sound; they were well into the fifth minute before it slowed down enough for Hermione to be able to understand all the action swirling around her.

Severus was utterly magnificent. Black robe billowing behind him, he stalked their opponents like a panther might; from his attitude, it was clear he was having fun playing with them before casting the final coup de grâce. Spells were delivered with forceful flicks of his wand, and the sheer amount of power flying from him scented the twilight air strongly with ozone.

To her shock, her shields were not only holding up but doing so in the face of sustained charges. Nothing had gotten past her magic to impact Snape, and she suddenly found herself feeling far more confident. _Well then, let's see what other elements of mayhem I can bring to the field…_ Focusing on the defensive shields of the apprentice, she sent a barrage of minor hexes towards the man. Only one casting managed to get through his protections, but it was a good one.

The tickling charm hit him solidly, and he fell to his knees, clutching at his sides and nearly screaming with laughter as a set of ropes took him the rest of the way down. _One more and we are done…_ Hermione caught a flicker of movement to her right. Turning quickly, she saw that Buffone had somehow flanked them, his face screwed in a rictus of rage and hate as it became clear that he was going to lose.

Time slowed to a trickle as his mouth moved over a spell, the fine hairs on the back of Hermione's neck standing to attention. A flash of purple flame shot from his wand… a malevolent hue one she knew all too well.

For a brief second, she was back in the bowels of the Ministry, and it was Dolohov's haggard and crazed face that she saw rather than Buffone. An echo of old pain, fierce and consuming, flared in scars of her chest and Hermione frantically yanked at the wellspring of her magic as the deadly curse arched toward Severus.

_NO! Not again!_

A dark and inexorable tsunami of power hit her in response to her call, and she ruthlessly marshalled it to do her will. _You will not hurt him!_ she screamed mentally, mind spinning over a dozen ways to stop the Italian. Her shields swelled, flaring golden against the dark as Buffone's deadly spell hit it; lunging forward so that she was shoulder-to-shoulder with Severus, she sent out her own ball of energy at Buffone with a vicious downstroke.

Shooting forward, the energy flattened into a mirror-like disc in the centre of the field. For a brief second, confusion came over Buffone; then horror filled the man's expression as his gaze focused on the blurry image in front of him. Closing his eyes, the man screamed wordlessly… and then fell backwards, stiff as a board when Snape hit him with a full body-bind curse.

A sudden roaring filled Hermione's ears, and time snapped back into place as her spell dissolved. _It's the crowd… I'm hearing the crowd, and we've won!_ She looked down to find Severus on one knee next to her. Shaking from adrenaline, she leaned on his shoulder, her legs turning into jelly as the impact of the match hit her.

"What did I tell you?" he panted, satisfaction clear on his face. "Babies… and candy."

* * *

With the presence of so many high-ranking guests at Beauxbatons- and perhaps to dispel the sickly memories of what had occurred following the last major feast- Madame Maxine threw an impromptu supper and ball.

Hermione would have much rather stayed in the Express, dined on leftover pot roast, and retired early to her compartment with a pot of tea and a trashy romance. Alas, politics dictated that such an evening was not in the cards, and she found herself hurriedly putting the finishing touches on her makeup, still a bit jittery from the day's events. After nearly jabbing herself in the eye with eyeliner, she finally broke down and charmed the rest of it into place; while it was not her best job, it would have to do.

 _And really, if I don't look picture-perfect, I doubt anyone will challenge me on it tonight_ , she thought a touch smugly. Snagging her beaded bag and a silk shawl from a chair, Hermione hurried out the door to find Severus already waiting for her. That battlefield joie de vivre was still bubbling just under the surface, lending him a further magnetism that she found exceptionally attractive.

He straightened as soon as he saw her. "Madame." Pulling out a curious looking bouquet from behind his back, he presented it to her with an understated flourish.

A vivid green in colour, the bouquet turned out to be some sort of frond woven into the shape of roses; gently, she stroked the sharp edge of one flower and turned a questioning eye towards Severus. "Are these palm fronds?"

"They are," he answered gravely, a faint smirk playing over his lips.

"And tell me, oh Great Potion Master, what is the meaning you wish to signify with them?"

"Might they just be ornamental?"

"Not a chance." Taking a deep breath- and aware that she was giving away a rather lot- she launched into a sensitive topic. "Our first class… you asked Harry about asphodel and wormwood."

Severus stilled but said nothing, attention fastened firmly on her.

"Asphodel is a type of lily, and in the Victorian Era came to symbolise a regret that that would follow one to the grave. Wormwood can indicate absence, as well as bitter sorrow. I do not think that you chose those plants randomly."

_You regretted Lily's death bitterly…_

"My phrasing was not a coincidence." In the murky gloom of the hallway, the shadows seemed to thicken, and they were suddenly not alone in their conversation.

 _Does part of his reluctance to deepen our relationship have to do with Harry's Mum? It's not like we've talked about her, or what his current feelings might be…_ she wondered, the silence oppressive. Hermione licked her lips nervously; there was only one way to find out what he was thinking. "And what meaning do these palm fronds carry?"

"I find it hard to believe that you don't already know the answer to that question."

"I know some of their historical usages, yes. But my days of memorising books are over."

"As if I believe that…" He looked at his feet for a moment, and then explained. "In the language of flowers, palm fronds indicate victory or success."

It was an answer, and it was not. Hermione nodded and made an effort to lighten her tone. "Well, that makes sense given their similar connotations among the Abrahamic religions. Still, it's not terribly sporting of us to keep rubbing the message in." Examining the carefully bundled fronds again, she came to a quick decision. "However, Buffone was less than sporting from the start… hold on, I have an idea."

Dashing back to her compartment, Hermione pulled out the ornamental comb at the top of her chignon, transfigured the base of the bouquet to match it, and placed it in her hair like a crown. The vibrancy of the colour worked well with both her hair and the bronze of her dress, and she was quite pleased with the result.

"Does this pass muster, Headmaster?" she teased as she returned, and was rewarded by his slow smile.

"It does, indeed. Shall we?" Proffering his arm, he indicated the door.

"We shall. To the victors go the spoils, after all…"

* * *

The ballroom was a crowded, dizzying crush, leaving Hermione a tad breathless; if there was ever a 'magical' evening, the gilded, grand splendour of Beauxbatons was it.

Already, the orchestra was in full swing, and she hesitated at the edge of the dance floor, trying to figure out what to do first. She could see Madame Maxine draped over an enormous red velvet divan, holding court; the responsible thing would be to go over to her and pay her respects, but Hermione inwardly rebelled at the action.

_If we go over there, we'll likely be stuck there for ages… God, for just a little bit, I want to lose myself. I want to have fun…_

Glancing up at Snape, she caught him staring back at her with a hungry, covetous expression, and it fired something reckless in her own blood.

"Dance with me." It came out less of a question and more of a demand. _I'm going to get myself into trouble tonight_ , she thought, recalling the flirtation of the last ball and their on-going conversations about patience. And then: _I don't really care. I need something more than gentlemanly restraint tonight!_

"You only have to ask," he replied and swept her out onto the dance floor without another word.

It took a few measures to slide fully into the waltz; they both missed a few steps before adjusting to each other. Then it all clicked together, and Severus pulled her in a little closer.

"You look like a goddess tonight, Hermione," he murmured, the silken quality of his voice rippling over her skin. "Although, with so martial a crown, perhaps I should call you Athena instead."

"As much as I enjoy the flattery, I am no virgin patroness, I assure you," Hermione objected tartly. _And I am so tired of being chaste!_

"My mistake." He slid them into an extravagant dip, one long-fingered hand sweeping low across her bare back, causing a shiver to race down. Severus was just a touch too tall for her, but Hermione enjoyed the sensation it provoked, his blatant masculinity making her feel like someone altogether more dainty and feminine.

"Truly," she remarked, thinking of how Severus could weave meaning into the smallest thing. "The choice of the bouquet was inspired. You are much like the palm frond, you know."

"How do you figure that?"

Recalling the texture of the plant, she explained. "Palm fronds are sharp… cutting, one might say, but when woven together, they are both durable and flexible. Strong. A symbol of victory, as you noted. Eminently useful in a wide variety of areas, and are, of course like any good Slytherin, green."

"You needn't flatter me," he responded, a faint suggestion of pink colouring his cheeks even as his countenance became harder to read.

"Yes, I do. You deserve to be flattered, Severus." And Hermione suddenly found that she meant it, a profoundly curious longing filling her: she badly wanted to know this complex, challenging man in every way possible. Wanted to be known, and appreciated in return…

The waltz ended, Hermione's skirt momentarily twisting about his legs with frustrated desire.

"What is it you want, Hermione?" he asked as they reached a quiet spot by the windows. Some of the heat in his gaze was replaced by uncertainty.

 _I want you!_ She was quite sure he saw the answer in her eyes, but prevaricated, trying to keep to the spirit of their earlier discussions—at least while they were in the company of others. "For the moment?" She pointed to one of the trays being held by a passing waiter. "I want a chocolate covered strawberry and another dance with you."

"As you wish…"

"Ahhh, Headmaster Snape! Professor Granger! There you are… I was worried that you had decided to forgo tonight's little entertainment." Maxine glided over, as stately as a schooner at full sail.

_Oh, bugger!_

"Madame Maxine." Snape greeted the woman with a courtly bow. "We would never be so rude, especially after all your work that went into arranging everything for the match."

"It was nothing. Worth all the trouble for the exciting results." The Frenchwoman laughed loudly, drowning out the opening bars of the next dance. "But enough of that… several people have requested introductions. Severus, I insist, you must come with me. The Chief Brewer for our Ministry positively demands to speak with you. And Hermione…" the woman swept back a step, revealing the much smaller figure of Fabrizio Buffone standing in her wake. "…Master Buffone would also be grateful for a moment of your time."

Severus did not move forward, watching the Italian for several tense seconds.

Maxine delivered a jarring blow to his shoulder. "Oh, now, don't glower at the poor man in that way. He only wishes to ask a few questions about Professor Granger's charms work. And after that match, you can hardly be worried that Hermione can't take care of herself!"

"I have much faith in her, I assure you." Still, he hesitated, and Hermione waved him forward, trying to not appear too resentful of the interruption.

"You promised me a strawberry and a dance, Severus, and I'm going to hold you to that when you return."

Snape only nodded, thin-lipped, and Maxine drug him away.

She was left facing Buffone, who gave her a stiff bow. As he looked up, Hermione caught an echo of the rage that she had seen on his face during the match; then he blinked, and there was nothing but pretentious and aggrieved pride.

"I congratulate you on your success, Professor."

Hermione responded as tactfully as she could manage. "Duelling against you was a unique pleasure, and one I will never forget."

"You are too kind." The trite words were said with very little sincerity.

A cheerful, nosy group of youths approached their corner, and Buffone gestured to a quieter nook by one of the long hallways. "May I suggest that we move to a place where shouting is not required?"

Hermione followed him obligingly, wondering why he wanted to speak with her. _It's not as if he has any respect for me, or Severus, for that matter…_

"You appear flushed. Would you like a glass of champagne?" Again, there was something off in the man's query, but Hermione couldn't place what.

"Yes, thank you."

He returned swiftly, carrying two drinks. As Buffone handed it to her, he peered at the decorations in her hair.

"What is that? They are not flowers."

"Palm fronds, woven into roses." Taking a sip of the champagne, Hermione gave a mental sigh at the dry, bitter taste. _Clearly, Maxine sent us far superior bottles then this dreck…_

"How… odd. A traditional English custom, I suppose?"

 _Still a condescending blowhard, I see_. "Not hardly." Deciding to bring back a bit of the swot, she continued in a sweetly patronising tone. "The palm frond was used in many Mediterranean cultures, from the Assyrians onward. Why, in Roman culture, wasn't the Latin word for palm- 'palma'- a metonymy for victory?"

Buffone blinked rapidly, apparently not understanding much in her speech.

"It is possible. I do not pay attention to that sort of thing." He stopped, a moue of distaste flickering across his expression before he recovered himself. "I want to know about the charm that you used at the end of the match. I would not be the champion that I am if I did not learn from my… failure."

"It's a charm based off the Remembrall that I developed a few years ago," Hermione began, taking another sip to wet her suddenly dry mouth. "Basically, it mimics a Bogart and shows a person's worst fear."

The orchestra began a spirited tango, the music serving to ramp up the energy in the ballroom several notches further. The cacophony pressed at her uncomfortably, and Hermione found herself becoming unaccountably flustered. _Pull it together, Granger…_

"And why pray tell, did you develop such a charm?" The man was suddenly a step too close, steel-blue eyes boring into her coldly.

"Therapeutic…" she mumbled, back pressing up against the ballroom wall as it all became too much. _There is something wrong with me…_ she realised dully, her thoughts fracturing into a disjointed muddle. _I need Severus..._

"Madame, you do not look well. Perhaps a chair?" Buffone had backed off, and it calmed some of the nascent panic growing within her.

"I need… I want to get out of here." It took considerable effort to get the words out, her lips rubbery and uncooperative. She tried to peer across the room for Severus, but the motion and colour were too much, and she clutched desperately at the wall for balance.

"Come with me," the man said coaxingly. Soothingly. "I will take you away from here. A bit of air will help, don't you think?"

_Severus…_

And then Hermione was half-stumbling down a dark hallway, Buffone's hand latched onto her upper arm. _Oh, god…he's drugged me!_ A door appeared, and after the click of a heavy lock sounded, she was pushed through. Hermione went flying through a fathomless dark tunnel, finally hitting something solid in a painful jumble of limbs.

Panting, she leaned hard into a large desk, trying to gather her thoughts. _Fight. I have to fight him…_ Hermione scrabbled for her wand, the simplest task seemingly beyond her. A meaty hand batted her questing fingers aside, and then Buffone's sneering face loomed large.

"Ahh, but you won't need this…" He tossed the wand carelessly behind him, and Hermione saw that she was in some sort of library.

"Why?" she gasped, unable to understand and clutching at the table for dear life, her heart filling the room with a thunderous roar.

"Why?! Why?!" the man hissed, spittle flying. "You humiliate me in front of the world, and you dare ask why? You showed them everything! You showed them my soul and my fear…"

Frantically, Hermione shook her head. "No, no, no… that's not how it works!"

"You mock me!" Buffone screamed, hand darting forward and ripping the crown of palm fronds from her hair. He snarled as several large cuts appeared on his fingers. "But no more…" Flinging the greenery away, he grabbed her throat, squeezing hard.

"Now you will fear me!"

* * *

Snape was a possessive bastard; he always had been, and couldn't imagine that particular character trait changing at all in the future. Accordingly, it was difficult to keep his attention on the nonsense that Maxine and the brewer were going on about. His gaze kept sliding back to Hermione, chatting amiably with Buffone in the far corner.

His words had not been idle flattery; she really did look like a goddess, especially with his palm fronds perched upon her corkscrew curls. _And perhaps_ , he thought, pushing thoughts of a naked Hermione away lest he embarrass himself, _...tonight I might have reason to be a possessive bastard._

Snape had been exceedingly careful during the preceding two months. With all of the drama surrounding Potter and his divorce, it was no time to try and woo the woman, and really, he did not know her in the ways that counted. And so he had taken great care to engage her in frequent and varied discussions; had let himself get a better picture of who the adult Hermione Granger was.

That evening, standing in the shadowy hallway of the Hogwarts Express waiting for Hermione to finish dressing, Snape had finally given up the ghost of pretence. He wanted her with an elemental, visceral longing. While there was a chance that matters could go sour between them, he was tired of waiting for the timing to be perfect. In a thousand different ways, Hermione had shown her trust in him, from the humbling act of making peace with Lucius to confronting some of her long-held biases. Any further learning about each other would best be done within the bounds of a proper relationship. To hold back his feelings any longer would be an act of cowardly foolishness; he had seen the doubt in her eyes when she had obliquely asked about Lily. And so he had vowed to himself that if she gave him any hint that she was willing to forgo their careful courtship, he would not hesitate.

'Dance with me…' The order had been imperious and unequivocal, and with those words, Snape had willingly thrown himself in the care of one Hermione Jean Granger. She understood enough of him to not be scared off at the first bump- her commentary about the asphodel and wormwood clearly demonstrated that. If she wanted him, then she would get him, tattered and damaged goods as he was.

_I will find her the best damn strawberry in France if that's what it takes…_

He was still afraid of what she might see or find. Merlin knew he had more skeletons in his closet than a retired palaeontologist. But he was so tired of denial, of pretending he didn't want love and companionship…

_And she wants me!_

Seeking some reassurance of that fact, Snape eyed the far end of the ballroom… to find nothing but an empty corner. Briefly, he scanned the dancers, looking for her familiar bronze figure.

She was gone.

Instinct kicked in. There could be a perfectly reasonable explanation for her disappearance. Snape did not want to look like the fool, chasing after her when she'd only gone to fuss with her makeup or some such thing.

_No. Something is wrong._

The internal voice was insistent and not to be ignored.

"Excuse me." The words were thrown over his shoulder, uncaring of what Maxine and her guests would think. _Where is she?_ Pushing his way through the crush, he made his way to the last spot he had seen her.

Calling on his magic as Headmaster, he dipped into the Hogwarts Web. The students were all safe, but as he widened his focus to include Hermione, he caught a whiff of sheer terror and confusion. Whirling, he searched the faces of the people around him: no Hermione, and no Buffone.

Catching sight of an exit, he charged forward, pulling out his wand and extending his magical focus outward. It was a long, bare hallway; at the very end, Snape could see an open door leading to the gardens. _Could Buffone have dragged her outside? Why would Hermione go with him?_

A door flashed by on his right, and there, finally, was a vestige of a magical spell that he recognised. Skidding backwards, he blew Buffone's privacy protections- not to mention the door- to bits and rushed in. The Italian had his back to the hallway and was bent over a desk. As the man turned, Snape saw the gleam of bronze in the dim light.

_HERMIONE!_

She was lying prostrate on the surface of the desk, with Buffone on top of her, choking the life out of her with both hands. For a horrified second, Snape froze. Set in a nearly purple face, Hermione's brown eyes were blank and unseeing, tiny hands frantically clawing at the man's arms.

Then utter fury exploded within Snape, and he launched himself at Buffone. Ripping him off her, he tackled the duellist to the floor, fists raining down in an unstoppable, vicious barrage. Bones and flesh broke under his knuckles, and he did not care. All he knew was anger.

 _KILL HIM, KILL HIM!_ His blood sang a song of violence and death until a weak whisper of broke into his berserker's rage.

"Sev… Severus…"

_Hermione!_

He didn't need a wand to call on his magic; wordlessly, Snape encased the man in layers upon layers of rope and rushed back to the desk.

Hermione had crumpled to the floor, resembling nothing more than a ruined rag doll. She lay on her back, boneless and unmoving but for the heave of her chest and a single, slow blink.

Crawling over to her, he gently stroked her cheek. "Hermione…" he pleaded as her eyes fluttered shut.

"Drug… drugged," she rasped.

"You were drugged?" he repeated dumbly, and then the analytical part of his mind finally kicked in. "You were drugged. All right… you'll be fine. Just stay with me, Granger."

Reaching down to his belt buckle, he pushed a hidden latch, and a small pillbox popped free. Twisting it open, he snagged the bezoar. "Granger, look at me!"

Her eyes fluttered again. "I am going to put a bezoar in your mouth." Cradling her head in his lap, he dropped the small stone. With a wince, he put a hand to her throat, meaning to massage it, but her reaction was forceful and immediate. Hands shooting out, she fought him blindly.

"It's just me, it's all right. Hermione, you need to swallow this bezoar. Can you do that on your own? Can you do that for me?" Snape pleaded, not wanting to touch her neck again if he could help it.

"Max! Millie!" he bellowed, and the two House-Elves appeared with simultaneous cracks.

"Headmaster?" Max asked, gaze falling on Hermione with a shocked curiosity.

"Professor Granger was just attacked by Buffone. Max, I want you to guard him, and Millie, I want you to go to Madame Maxine and inform her of what has happened. He drugged her with something, and I need to get her back to the Express so that I can better treat her. Understood?"

Barely waiting for their nods, Snape gathered Hermione into his arms and Apparated directly back into the Hogwarts Express.

* * *

 


	11. Shelter

Even as they spun into the chaos of Apparition, Hermione was a motionless bundle in his arms. Snape hit the floor of the Express with a thud and barely managed kept his legs under him. He was panting, he realised dully, and the lingering effects of fear and fury had left him covered in a fine sheen of sweat. Scrambling for any semblance of control, he called forth his Occlumentic shields. As they took shape, the scene in front of him seem steady as the chill of his protections provided a buffer.

_Right. Triage first…_

Carefully, Snape placed Hermione on top of the coverlet of his bed, casting a series of diagnostic charms on her in rapid succession. The damage to her throat was limited to the soft tissues and was not impeding her respiration significantly, although he was concerned about what might occur as the swelling progressed. As he took in the injury, the mangled skin of his own neck itched and prickled in solidarity, but he batted the memories away and continued to decode the medical charms.

She had been drugged with a relatively standard tranquillising compound, and the bezoar had stabilised her enough that he could treat that particular issue last. Sifting through his medical stores, he plucked out a vial of an anti-inflammatory painkiller and measured a dose. Turning back to her, he paused, rage once again bubbling up through his protections as he took in her blank, tear-stained features and limp body. _Fix her_ , he told himself sternly. _Fix her first, and then you can feel_. Ruthlessly shoving his emotions under the lock and key of his Occlumentic shields, he moved on.

Sliding an arm under her back, Snape propped her up. "Granger, I need you to drink this." Slowly, the dull brown eyes opened; head lolling to one side, she reluctantly opened her mouth. He poured the mixture in bit by excruciating bit, trying to insure that she wouldn't gag.

 _It's safe enough to use the topical compound of the broad-spectrum antidote_ , he decided after re-assessing her vitals, and summoned the small crystal bottle. Flipping one wrist over, he carefully placed five drops of the murky green liquid on her pallid skin. The effect was almost immediate: he could see her respiration and heart rate increase at the same time as her complexion lost some of the waxen texture.

Coming around further, Granger gave a little whimper of distress and stirred.

"You are going to be alright," he soothed mechanically, trying to quickly plot what step to take next; he needed to know what bothered her the most and if he had missed any other injuries. Making eye contact with her, he stroked the silky skin of her upper arm. "Will you show me what happened? I need to figure out what to treat next."

Dread welled up in her eyes as she shrank back into the pillows at the suggestion. He leaned back to give her further space, fingers stilling. _Don't be such a bloody idiot, Snape! Of_ course _she doesn't want to show you that…_ "My apologies, I can proceed without the details."

Glancing back to medical kit, he began to pick out the next set of potions to give her before an indistinct moan caused him to turn back to Hermione. Her bloody hand clinched at the coverlet of the bed, and he felt the slightest tug of Legilimency as he looked into her determined gaze. Allowing himself to be drawn forward, he fell into her mind like a stone dropping down a well.

Turbulent emotions- terror, fear, panic- wrapped demanding tentacles around him, all while her memories of the evening hit him in a series of waves.

Annoyance at being torn away from Severus; I _t's not as if he has any respect for me, or Severus, for that matter…_ Her tongue thick and dry, a bitter metallic taste in her mouth as she realized that she had been drugged. Buffone, face twisted by an insane fury. The corner of the desk digging sharply into hip and thighs as the world went crimson... his breath, hot and foul on her neck, smelling like whisky and green olives… bands of fire gripping her neck…

_Why? Oh, god, why this again...?_

And then he was in a different library, one with peacock blue carpets and freshly waxed floors. Utterly desperate to keep her secrets; _they mustn't figure out who Harry was!_ A knife slowly carved perfectly formed letters in her flesh. She was surrounded by matted coils of ink black hair and maniacal laughter as her blood pooled into odd shapes on the parquet. An unwashed and feral creature lunging at her…

It was the remembrance of a long-dead werewolf that finally jolted Snape into action. Frantically, he flailed at the spinning memories, seeking Hermione among the turmoil of it all. She was a tiny thing, dwarfed by all the monstrous sentiment, and she would be easy to enfold her into his own shields. Swiftly, he pulled her in and went to work shoring up her defences; brick by brick, he built a wall to keep out the worst of her horrors. While it wouldn't last long- a week, at most- it would hopefully be enough to give her space when dealing with the attack.

However, in the privacy of his innermost mind, he couldn't hide from her. Couldn't hesitate, or prevaricate. She reached for him suddenly; he could do nothing but grasp back. Deliberately, he recalled the warmth of their earlier hug, and felt the power of that memory shelter them both.

 _Severus…_ the sheer relief and implicit trust in her mental tone was a revelation to him.

 _I'm here_ , he told her. And I will protect you. I will not leave your side… just come back with me, Hermione. Don't stay like this…

_I'm scared. I don't want to deal with any of this again._

_You can, and I will be with you every step of the way._

_Promise?_

_I promise!_ He infused his reply with as much reassurance and understanding as he could; he knew all too well the desolation of wallowing in one's memories and having no ladder to which to climb out. _How many nights did I spend bleeding on the icy stone floor of the dungeon, wishing for death to finally claim me?_

Intertwined as they were, Hermione was privy to his musings, and his bleak thought roused her as nothing else had. _Never again_ , she vowed fiercely, _Never again will you be left alone in such a manner! Together…_

 _Together_ , he confirmed, and painstakingly began to pull out of her mind. It took several rapid blinks before his eyes could focus on the outside world again; Hermione was clinging to him just has she had been in their mental landscape.

Tears began to roll down her face, and she burrowed deeper into his shoulder.

Gently beginning to card her curls into a semblance of order, he let her weep.

* * *

Almost twenty minutes later, Max popped into the compartment, floppy ears trembling with distress.

"Headmaster, the Beauxbatons Madame is waiting outside with the Gendarme. She is asking to speak with you when possible, and asks if a Healer is being needed. "

"Tell Maxime," Hermione croaked before he could say anything, swallowing painfully. "…tell her we will be out shortly, and that Headmaster has taken care of my needs."

"I can speak with her," Severus offered, gaze measuring. "The Gendarme can wait until the morning."

She shook her head, face still buried in his robes. "No. I would rather not draw this out."

Belatedly, he recalled that Hermione wasn't his only charge. "Max, where are the students?"

"Max is having fetched Madame Gresham, and she is getting everyone back to the Express."

"Excellent thinking," he praised absently, pondering the course forward. "Please also inform Minerva that there has been an incident, and that I will speak to her as soon as possible. And tell the students that everyone is to stay on the train until further notice."

"Yes, Headmaster." With a deep bow, the elf disappeared.

"What can I do?" Severus asked as Hermione started to pull herself into a sitting position.

"Help me stand, please." She was as wobbly as a newborn foal, and as her silk dress slithered down her legs, he became aware that it was ripped down one side and barely keeping her decent. Hurriedly summoning one of his wool robes and draping it over her shoulders, he held her waist steady as she struggled to get her arms into the full sleeves.

Gingerly, Hermione ran a tentative hand over her throat, wincing. "How bad?"

"Nothing permanent, but it's already rather… colourful."

She cleared her throat, face pinching with pain as it worked the muscles. "Can I take anything else?"

"Only another dose of a mild analgesic. I want to wait until all the other potions have cleared your bloodstream before administering anything stronger. Do you want it?"

She nodded, staring at her shaky hands blankly; half the nails were broken down to the quick, and there were faint smears of blood covering the digits.

"How does the rest of you feel?" he asked, hoping to distract her as he readied another measure of painkiller. She had to be absolutely covered with contusions, he knew, recalling the unnatural fashion in which she had been bent backwards over the desk.

"I hurt."

Handing her the phial, he watched her try to get the liquid down without choking. It was a painful process for the both of them, and Severus found himself having to unclench his fists as the anger crept back in.

_If I see that man again…_

"Say the word," he whispered, blood pounding loudly in his ears, "…and I'll kill him. Slowly. Quickly. Your choice… it doesn't much matter to me."

Hermione stared at him for a long moment before placing a hand over his heart. "As much as I appreciate the sentiment, your soul is worth far more then Buffone's life." As unsteady as her voice was, her manner brooked no argument.

Covering her hand with his own, he spoke. "As you wish."

She sagged a little then, and Severus pulled her back into his arms.

The next question was hard to ask. "Do you want me to go and fetch Potter? It can be done discretely."

"No. Not if you will stay." Her arms tightened around his waist, and he found that just holding her helped to quiet the fury within.

"I meant what I said earlier," he confirmed quietly, stroking down the length of her spine. "I'll leave when you want me to, and no sooner."

"Then you may be stuck with me far longer than you'd wish," she replied softly, making no move to pull out of his arms.

"That's highly unlikely."

They stood together for several minutes, Severus finding as much comfort in the embrace as Hermione was.

"Let's go do this," she finally sighed, straightening up, "…before I chicken out entirely."

* * *

The moonlight was bright and full in the cloudless midnight sky. Severus exited the coach first, descending the stairs and then turning back to proffer his arm. Hermione stepped down, still clad in his overly-large black robe. She carried herself with all of the grace and defiance of a young queen; her bearing screamed that she was not to be treated like a victim. In the shimmering light of the moon, her skin was a luminous white but for the blooming bruises ringing her throat in a macabre necklace.

Maxime took a gliding step forward, her large eyes locked on the obvious finger marks. The low rumble that followed sounded like the approaching thunder of a storm.

"Forgive me, Hermione, for allowing you to come to such harm while you were under my protection. He will pay for his crimes, that I vow."

Hermione's lips thinned momentarily. "I don't hold you responsible, Maxime. Buffone made his choices, and he alone should atone for them."

There was a discreet cough from behind the Headmistress of Beauxbatons, and she moved to one side, revealing two additional people.

"Professor Granger, Headmaster Snape, this is Capitaine Rousseau, of the _Gendarmerie Départementale_. He will be leading the investigation, and working with Madeline Marcos, representing our Ministry of Magic."

Rousseau bowed. "I understand that this has been a very difficult evening, and we will take as little of your time as possible. We only need to your statement, as well as to collect some evidence from your person."

Instinctively, Hermione's eyes flickered to his, and he could tell that despite her bravado, she was floundering. Severus took over.

"Maxime, if you would be so kind as to cast some privacy charms, I believe that we can accommodate Capitaine Rousseau and his colleague right here."

"But of course," she replied and withdrew her wand.

Likewise pulling out his wand, Severus added another chair to the paisley garden set, and enlarged two of the seats. With another flick, he conjured several floating constructs of bluebell fire, a pleasant wash of heat rolling over the group. Leading Hermione over to the loveseat, he gestured for everyone to sit.

"Professor Granger, I need to cast two spells in order to collect the physical evidence. Perhaps we can do that now?" Rousseau smiled apologetically.

"Yes," she answered. "What exactly do you need?"

"I simply need you to stay still until they are complete. The spells will take less than half a minute; the first will record your injuries and what medical treatment you have received in the last four hours, and the second will gather any other evidence of the attack, such as blood or skin that may be on your person."

She nodded, gaze again seeking Severus out once again. "Please proceed."

Rousseau cast the spells with the ease of someone who had preformed the task many times over. As the magic swept over her, ruffling the robes and her hair, Hermione stiffened.

"Steady on," Severus murmured, and soon as Rousseau indicated he was finished, took Hermione's cold hands within his own. Giving a grateful squeeze, she moved closer, robe brushing against his boots.

"Should you wish to cast a cleansing charm, or even go bathe, we would be happy to wait." Madeline Marcos spoke for the first time, voice sympathetic in the dark.

"Severus," Hermione began, a faint edge of distress appearing. "I don't know where my wand is…"

Maxime pulled Hermione's wand from her pocket. "I have your wand, cherie. Our Elves recovered it for you."

"Thank you." She turned back to Severus. "Would you mind casting a cleaning charm? I don't trust my magic quite yet."

"Of course." Hitting them both with a vigorous scrubbing spell, Severus guided them both into the loveseat and turned to face the investigators expectantly.

Madeline Marcos let out a soft sigh, perching herself an opposing chair. "Professor Granger, if you couldbegan by giving us a bit of background…"

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Hermione was calmly narrating her perspective of the duel.

"…and then he cast Dolohov's curse—do you know the proper name of it, Severus?"

He looked at her inquiringly. "The reducto variant with the purple flame?"

"Yes, that was the one."

"No, it has a Serbian name I can't remeber."

Rousseau nodded. "We know which one you speaking of. By coincidence, both of us were spectators tonight."

"I was hit with that particular curse when I was sixteen, and hurt badly. I can only assume that Buffone chose it for the same reason that he started with the reptilian hex…" She shrugged. "I panicked a bit—he had been aiming for Severus—and so I threw out a spell of my own creation."

"Please explain."

"I developed a spell that mimics a cross been a Remembrall and Boggart. It's to be used in therapeutic situations, allowing the user to see their worse fear in more controlled fashion."

"That would be the silver disk at the end of match?"

"Yes. But I cast it in such a way that only he could see his fear…" Her voice cracked suddenly. "When I was in the library he said… he said that was why he attacked me. Because I had shown everyone what he was afraid of. But I don't even know what it was that he was afraid of..."

"And did you have any contact with Buffone after the duel?"

"No. Not until we returned to the ballroom."

"Describe the events of the dance once you met with Buffone."

"Severus and I had been dancing when Maxime came over. She said that Buffone had some questions about my charms work, and that someone else wanted speak with Severus. We separated, and then Buffone offered to fetch me a drink. He first asked about the palm fronds in my hair, and then I started to feel… off. It all happened very quickly. By the time I realized that he had drugged me, he had gotten me down a back hallway and I was on the verge of passing out."

"To the best of your memory, can you repeat what he said to you?"

Hermione closed her eyes, struggling to pull the recollection from the haze of fear and pain. "He took my wand and threw me into a desk. And then he said, 'You humiliated me in front of the world, and you dare ask why. You showed them everything, you showed them my soul and my fears…" Her fingers tightened on Severus' almost painfully. "Then he said something about me mocking him, and that I would fear him."

"And then?"

"Then he began to choke me."

Her composure abruptly fled, and Severus could see that she was one the verge of breaking down again. "That's enough," he told the investigators flatly. "I would be more than happy to give you my memories of remainder of the evening, but any further questions will have to wait."

Marcos and Rousseau glanced at each other, and then Marcos spoke for the two of them. "I think we have more than enough evidence, Headmaster."

"Tell me of the investigation," he ordered, not caring if it came across rudely.

"It will likely be late sometime tomorrow before we can interview Buffone." Marcos raised a brow, something chiding entering her expression. "You broke every bone in Buffone's face, Headmaster Snape, and he might yet lose the sight in one eye. It will take sometime before he is awake."

"However," Rousseau interjected smoothly, "…as you were acting in clear defence of Professor Granger, you will not be brought up on assault charges for Buffone's injuries."

"I would hope not," Severus said coolly, and Maxine chuckled nastily.

"And as this is my school, and firmly under my jurisdiction, I would not allow it." She brought on heavy hand down with a smack for emphasis. "Not to mention the Italian Minister of Magic has already said that he will not fight me on any decisions made concerning that animal."

Marcos gave a shallow nod of acquiescence. "Regardless, Buffone's Apprentice has been questioned and was also rather forthcoming with information that will aid in prosecution. As you suspected, the pair did do research into both of your backgrounds, and their use of certain dark spells was no coincidence. He claims, however, that he was unaware of Buffone's plan to attack Professor Granger, and at the moment, we are inclined to believe him. Once Buffone is awake and we can question him, he'll be charged in the upper court…"

Despite the heat from the bluebell globes, Hermione had started to shiver next to him. He decided that it was time to end to evening. "I am satisfied that the appropriate actions are taking place. We can discuss the finer legal details later tomorrow," Snape cut in. "Or rather, later today."

Maxime apparently agreed with his assessment because she rose swiftly, and the two investigators had no choice but to follow her lead. "I will ensure that you will not be bothered until you are ready to face the attention. I will also have my personal elf, Bisou, listen for you. If there is anything you require—anything at all—please ask her to fetch it, or to summon me."

"Thank you, Maxime. If you will excuse us, it's past time that we should retire."

Murmuring low platitudes, Rousseau and Marcos departed with Maxime, and Severus steered Hermione back into the Express.

Madame Gresham was waiting for them in the hallway, wringing her hands. When she saw Hermione, she blanched. "So, the students had the right of it. Buffone did go mad."

"Unfortunately," he responded, keeping an arm around Hermione.

The older woman visibly rallied. "Well, I've got all of the students back in the carriage and off to bed, is there anything else I can do?"

He glanced over to Hermione, and she shook her head. "No, but if you could supervise the students in the morning, we would appreciate it. I doubt we will be up as early as they will."

"Not a problem," Madame Gresham replied. "I'll keep them corralled for as long as needed."

"Thank you," Hermione said, offering a faint smile.

"Of course, dearie. Don't hesitate to wake me if you do need something." With that, she bustled off, leaving the two of the standing in the corridor alone. Hermione looked absolutely terrible, and Severus could read her expression well enough.

"Do you want me to stay with you tonight?"

She nodded, appearing relieved that she didn't have to ask.

"My room or yours?"

"Yours."

Thankfully, his door was only a couple of steps away, and he ushered her in, feeling a touch of relief as he shut the door. With a wave of his hand, he activated both the security wards for the Express and the privacy protections for his room.

"Do you want to shower or anything?"

"No, I just need to change. You?"

He snorted. "No. Why do think I hit us both with the cleansing charm?"

"My, aren't we efficient… Millie," she called softly, and the elf popped into the room. "Could you retrieve my night gown, a fresh pair of nickers, and my tooth brush?"

In a flash, the elf retuned with a small bundle, and Hermione made her way into his bathroom. Keeping an ear out in case she needed something, Severus dug through his laundry to find his track pants and a t-shirt. Hastily, he stripped off his dress robes and got into the more causal clothes.

Emerging from the bath, Hermione wobbled over to his bed and sunk down on it gratefully.

"I'll be right back," he told her, and completed his nightly ablutions in record time. She was still sitting up when he padded back in, and he started to pull the blanket back. "Come on, let's get you to bed."

"Thank you," she whispered, eyes turning shiny again. "I'm sorry that I'm being such a bother…"

Sliding under the blanket himself, Severus pulled her close. "None of that, Hermione. You aren't being a bother, and you've done nothing to warrant an apology." He extinguished the light, hand finding hers in the dark. "Besides which, do you really think that I'm going to complain when you are in my bed?"

That earned him a weak chuckle. "When you put it that way, no." She sighed and moved closer. "Do you know where he might have learned it? Dolohov's curse, I mean."

It took a moment to follow her train of thought. "I hadn't realized that Buffone used the same curse that you were hit with in the Department of Mysteries until you mentioned it… but to answer your question, it's a fairly common spell that is taught at most of the Eastern European schools. Durmstrang teaches it, I believe. It's not terribly arcane."

There was a pause, and Hermione's voice became heavy with sleep. "I liked the snake balloons."

"I liked your shields. They were works of art."

"…wasn't going to let him touch you…" Hermione's breathing hitched, and then levelled out as she slipped into oblivion.

But I let him get to you, Severus thought with a flare ofguilt, and wrapped himself more protectively around her.

* * *

Hermione woke to the unfamiliar heat of another body next to her. Carefully opening her eyes, she found that she was curled next to Severus.

Propped up on one arm, he was watching her. He was distinctly scruffy, the beginnings of a beard darkening his jaw and black hair sticking out at odd angles. From Severus' dishevelled appearance, she doubted that he had slept at all. She felt a great wave of affection for him; she would be in far worse shape—both physically and mentally—had it not been for his constant care.

"Morning," he rumbled cautiously. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I got hit by a hippogriff," she replied, trying to figure out how the hell she was going to get out the bed to use the toilet without crawling or being carried. From her right big toe to every single curl on her head, she throbbed with pain.

Rolling to reach the bedside table, he plucked up an amber vial and handed it to her. "This should do the trick."

Wordlessly she drank it, surprised at the mild, pleasant hazelnut flavouring. Within seconds, a gentle heat seemed to emanate from her stomach outwards, and her muscles relaxed even as her focus sharpened.

"Wow," Hermione marvelled, flexing her feet. "That's quite the brew. Something of your own devising?"

He nodded. "Yes. I created it after one too many bouts with Cruciatus. It can only be taken once a day, but it's designed to be long lasting." He paused, eyes flicking to her throat. "I also have some bruise paste that will get rid of the remaining pain and discolouration."

Automatically, her hand crept to her neck. "Thank you… I think I'd like to take a shower before anything else." Hermione gingerly started to push herself up, expecting a wave of pain. But there was none, and she got out of the bed with a minimum of fuss.

"God, that really is brilliant stuff. It could raise the dead…"

Severus smirked. "In part, it did."

He rose from the rumpled bed, self-consciously smoothing his hair and shirt. "We should also speak to the students sometime this morning about what happened. They still don't know anything beyond the rumours."

"Agreed. I just need a bit of time to figure out what I want to say, first. I'll have a better idea after I get myself presentable."

"Very well. Shall I order breakfast?"

She swallowed experimentally, but there was only moderate pain. Severus' potions had healed the vast majority of her injuries. "Yes, I should eat. So, shower, change, eat and then we'll speak to the students?"

"That sounds like a plan," he agreed. Walking over to the door, he opened it and gazed down the hallway. "The coast is clear."

"Thank you, Severus," she repeated, squeezing his arm before making her way to her compartment.

* * *

Hermione stared at the mirror in shock; she had known it was bad- she'd been there, after all- but seeing the livid marks of Buffone's attack on her flesh was still profoundly disturbing. She could make put the individual finger marks wrapping around her neck, and her eyes were completely bloodshot from petechial haemorrhaging. Looking down at her naked body, she counted six broad areas of bruising.

_Oh, god… I almost died…_

The memory of unfriendly hands ghosted over her skin and she gripped the sink, trying to bring her rapid breathing under control. _I'm not doing this_ , she thought frantically. _I'm not going to let this take over my life!_

It took almost a minute to open the jar of bruise paste because her hands were trembling so hard; scooping up a sizeable glob, she started to smear it over her throat and face. Slowly, the purple and black marks began to fade. By the time that she had started to apply the paste to her backside, she had calmed enough that she needn't lean on the sink for support.

 _I am not letting this take over my life!_ she vowedagain, and reached for her clothes.

* * *

Emerging forty minutes later looking far more put together, she knocked at Severus' door. He answered it similarly refreshed, and motioned her inside. Breakfast was laid out at the small table by the window, and her stomach gave a hungry growl.

As he was pouring the tea, he winced a bit, and she glanced down. Both sets of knuckles were swollen and bruised and she gasped.

"Severus, what happened to your hands?"

He looked blankly at her for a moment. "You don't remember?"

"No," she shook her head, and swiftly accio'd the bruise paste from his bookcase.

"I beat the shite out of Buffone after I pulled him off you." He couldn't quite make eye contact as he said it.

"Give me your hand," she requested softly, and he complied reluctantly. Opening the jar, she began to rub the paste into the puffy joints. "Doesn't it hurt?"

"Not much. You don't need to go to all that trouble, Hermione…"

"Yes, I do," she argued, taking care to cover every inch of skin with the pale blue substance. "You were my champion last night. Surely you won't deny me this one service?"

"No, I won't." Severus exhaled. "But I should be begging you for your forgiveness instead."

Hermione stopped, cradling his warm hand in hers. "What are you talking about?"

Severus had gone very still. "It's all my fault that Buffone attacked you…"

Her gut twisted uncomfortably at his guilty tone. "How do you figure that?"

"The man was a braggart and fool; everyone could see that. I should have not challenged him over mere words. There was no need to get so bent out of shape. It's just…" He stopped, and pushed his hair out of his face with an angry swipe. "… as I said earlier, I knew plenty of people on both sides who could have been duelling champions given the chance and were killed in pointless and terrible fashions. They were my friends, and to hear their lives and deaths be dismissed so offhandedly… it made me angry."

"How does that make you responsible for what happened?"

He sent her a chiding look. "It was bad enough that I challenged him publicly, but during the match, I deliberately toyed with him. I wanted to show off… for you. For them. I could have beaten him within the first two minutes had I so chosen. Instead I humiliated him. Had I not done that..." His hand tightened over hers. "Forgive me, Hermione, for making you a target and putting you at risk."

Emotions and sentiment flooded her, and it took a full minute to find her voice. _Oh, you stupid, sweet man…_ "No, I will not forgive you," She had to grip his hand hard to keep him from pulling away. "You did nothing that needs forgiveness! Without you… I would be dead. He would have killed me..."

"Hermione," he softly tried to interrupt.

"No," she interjected firmly, cutting him off. "You listen to me, Severus Tobias Snape, if I don't get to apologize for being a bother, then neither do you. This wasn't your fault any more than it was mine! If we want to play the blame game, then it is I that should be found guilty. I'm the one that shamed him by making him think that his fears had been exposed in front of the entire world. I was the one stupid enough to accept a drink, and I let myself be dragged off by him…"

Her own rage came flying out. "But it wasn't my fault. Fabrizio Buffone is a mental fucking bastard. He's the one that has no control; he's the one that lost the sodding plot completely. He chose to do bad things… It wasn't my fault, and it certainly wasn't yours!"

Realizing that she was nearly shouting, Hermione took a calming breath and tried to reach for some humour. "If I hear you spout such nonsense again, I'll paddle your behind."

Severus' mouth quirked, and his eyes were noticeably lighter. "Is that supposed to be a punishment?"

"I'll make it one," she promised tartly. "Now, give me your other hand."

His compliance was far speedier this time around. Carefully, she applied the bruise paste, greatly enjoying the tactile sensation that it produced. He has such lovely hands… fine-boned and narrow, they were what her grandmother might have referred to as pianists hands. They were strong, and she could tell they that were superbly flexible; the faint scars marks of his profession spoke to how often he relied upon their deftness. Lingering, she took her time, running her own slippery fingers over his joints in easy, long swipes.

When Hermione finally looked up it was to find his watching her with such fire in his eyes that it stole her breath. _I want him_ , said the small part of her brain still capable of coherent thought. And then: _Oh. I think I'm in love with him…_

It was a startling revelation, and not. He had saved her life several times, but more than that, Severus had been an absolute rock over the last several months. He was her friend, and his all-around brilliance was undeniably sexy. Yes, he was sarcastic and temperamental, but he was also incredibly loyal. And now that she'd been given the chance to know a bit of him…

Some of her feelings must have been showing on her face, because for a moment he looked as startled as she felt. And then he leaned forward and kissed her.

It was a tender, ravenous touch of lips, and her eyes fluttered shut as he increased the pressure. His beautiful hand, still slick with bruise paste, caressed her cheek gently. For a brief moment, she felt a glorious swell of lust, and then it all came crashing down upon her. Severus' hunger—his need—seemed to tower above them, and her heart took off with a sickening lurch as anxiety clawed her.

Hermione pulled back with a gasp, sweat suddenly covering her brow and limbs shaking. Severus looked stricken, and it took all of her control to not push the chair over and run for cover. The tsunami of sentiment proved to be too much; tears started rolling down her face, and Hermione collapsed in on herself, feeling utterly wretched.

"I'm sorry," she cried, unable to stop weeping. "I'm such a horrible tease…"

"Sweetheart…" he began, reaching for her before yanking his hand back. "You're not horrible…"

"Yes I am," she gasped, knowing she was seconds away from going into a full-blown panic attack. "Severus..!"

"Look at me," he ordered fiercely. "Hermione, look at me!"

Six years in Severus' classroom ensured that she obeyed, and the instant she made eye contact with him, she felt his mind enfold hers. It was as if he slammed the door on all that overwhelming emotion; it was still there, but it couldn't touch her.

Tentatively, she reached her hand out to him, and was relived to find that his touch once again felt safe. Hermione took a shuddering breath in as he pulled away from her mind. "I'm sorry, Severus. I don't think—I know you won't hurt me but… I just can't… do that. Not right now."

He swallowed thickly. "I understand."

And then she really did feel like the worst sort of heel. Looking down and biting her lip in an effort to stop her tears, Hermione tried to calm herself.

"Hermione," he said softly, tugging at her hand. She glanced up miserably. "I do understand. You just need your body to belong to you for awhile."

"Exactly," she agreed, stunned that he could so easily put into words what she couldn't even articulate to herself. "How do you..?" His suddenly weary expression gave her the answer; clearly, he had gone through enough similar experiences to understand her anxiety. "Oh. Right."

"I've been down this path before," he confirmed dryly, expression softening. "So I don't want you to think you're being a tease, or any such nonsense. You are worth the wait, and I'm not going anywhere." A thread of black humour appeared. "Even if I have to drink impotence potions by the litre, I'll have patience."

She laughed at that, and picked up her napkin to dry her face.

He flexed his fingers experimentally. "Thank you for treating my hands, Hermione." Voice noticeably drier, he continued, "…now eat your breakfast. We need to speak to the students and Minerva."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big hug for all those who read and commented the last couple of chapters- thank you so much, lovely internet people! 
> 
> The title for the chapter- and indeed, a fair amount of the content- was inspired by the Ray LaMontagne song, "Shelter". Give it a listen here- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aHmNEQYc3js


	12. In a Hand Basket

_19 December 2007_

  
Severus was going to hell; if he hadn't been entirely sure of it before, there was no doubt about it now.  
  
The Beauxbatons Potions classroom was stifling hot and oppressively humid, particle-filled fumes visible in the dense air. His master class was brewing a variant of the Draught of Peace, and the combined effects of having thirteen cauldrons at a roiling boil for the last hour had rendered the room particularly unpalatable. However, it wasn't the temperature that had Snape so hot under the collar; it was the sight of Hermione's arse.  
  
_Christ, but she really does have a perfect arse!_  
  
Heart-shaped and with just enough curve and heft to make his palms itch to slap it, her bum was currently being showcased flawlessly by a pair of tight Muggle jeans. That she was also bent over at the waist trying to find an ingredient on a low shelf only improved the view; Snape was suddenly beset with the image of a naked Hermione in a similar position, with him fucking her roughly as he gripped her hips and she moaned his name over and over…  
  
He was going to hell for such fantasies, but in the meantime, he was stuck behind the teaching lectern like an utter pillock because his erection made it painfully obvious where his thoughts had descended. Severus didn't even have the luxury of his traditional robes to hide in; he'd left them in his room knowing how hot the class was going to get.  
  
_It hasn't even been two weeks since the attack! She hasn't shown any indication of wanting to step beyond comfort or friendship, and the last thing that she needs right now is you panting after her like a total wanker. For fuck's sake, you are a forty-seven-year-old man – act like it and show some control!_  
  
A little frantically, he tried to cleanse his inner eye with a veritable cornucopia of horrifying imagery: the sound and sight of Mandrakes screaming as they were slaughtered… vomit encrusting the hallways of the Hogwarts Express… catching Hooch and Flitwick in flagrante delicto on the Great Staircase, replete with back-door broom action…  
  
Thankfully, that specific recollection did the trick. With a mental sigh of relief, he finally moved away from the lectern. _Patience_ , he repeated to himself, _I just need to have some patience…_

* * *

  
  
Hermione was markedly restless that afternoon on the Express, viciously balling up and tossing three separate sheets of paper in a futile attempt to write a letter. From the corner of his eye, Snape watched her, wondering if it would be wise to question her mood. It wasn't as if she was moping about, or shivering in the corners; he thought that her apparent frustration spoke to a need to move forward out of the hesitant dance they'd been stuck in. _Or am I merely projecting what I want to see?_  
  
Deciding enough was enough, he spoke. "Shall I assign you a topic to write on? Perhaps that would finally stop your wanton waste of perfectly good parchment."  
  
He was rewarded with her sour glare. Setting down her pen with a disgruntled flick, she gazed at the floor for a moment. "I can't seem to figure out how to answer Harry's laundry list of questions." Hermione shrugged uncomfortably. "I mean, at this point I'm not fine, but I'm not a raving lunatic, either."

  
"I wouldn't be so confident of that…"  
  
"Oh, hush. You know what I mean. I haven't had a panic attack in four days. I'm sleeping through the night, for the most part… and we even attended last night's supper in the Great Hall without any issues. I'm not totally fine, but I will be."  
  
"So tell him that," Severus replied, putting his book down. "Or, alternatively, tell him to bugger off and stop fussing over you like an overwrought, tissue-shredding housewife."  
  
Hermione laughed. "Given that his only two examples of housewifery growing up were Molly Weasley and Petunia Dursley, your comparison isn't that far off." Making a face, she continued, "No, it's not just the questions that are giving me pause. Harry and I haven't really talked since I testified, and things are a little awkward between us because of it. I can't help but wonder if he's mad at me, or disgusted by what I said. It's not as if I can be all, 'So, Harry, as you've requested, here are the graphic details of my attack. Oh, and by the way, you don't think that I'm a total cunt because I spilt the beans about your personal life and then called your soon-to-be-ex-wife extremely rude names in front of most of the Wizengamot, do you? Taa, darling!'"  
  
Severus raised a brow. "As a Gryffindor, that particular level of subtlety would not entirely be out of character."  
  
"Git," she huffed, fighting back a smile. "I just wish I could speak with him to smooth things out, that's all, and my currently dismal letter writing ability isn't aided by the fact that I'm twitchier than a fifth-year before the first O.W.L. exam, either."  
  
_You and I both_ , he thought with a thread of dark amusement. _Only it's due to very different causes…_ Abruptly, his earlier fantasy of fucking Hermione surfaced from the abyss of his imagination, and discretely shifted in his chair as the pressure mounted. _I really am going to need to take an impotence potion…_  
  
"Right, whinge over…" With a little hum of impatience, Hermione settled back down to the letter, and Severus returned to his book. But Hermione's lack of focus seemed to have infected him, the words on the page blurring into nonsensical black blobs.  
  
For all that 'fine' was a frustratingly vague descriptor, Hermione did seem to be doing just that. Although he had spent the first four nights following Buffone's attack with her in his bed, she had moved back to her compartment the fifth night, citing the need to try and manage things on her own. While it was a sentiment that he appreciated, Severus found that he missed her just the same; having a warm and wonderfully soft woman in his bed had been an unexpected decadence, even if nothing had happened between them other than the soothing of nightmares. _To be fair, there is one silver lining: Hermione's return to her rooms has saved you from the inevitable morning embarrassment when she sees what sort of state you are in upon waking…_  
  
His dreams, always an indicative bellwether to his thoughts, had turned increasingly debauched, and he woke every morning with a cockstand that would have done his much younger self proud. Alas, self-gratification left him not only feeling unfulfilled but like a dirty old man. Severus was determined to give Hermione as much time and space as she needed and not be a bastard about it; he had no wish to overwhelm her once more. The sight of her panicked expression was not one he would quickly forget and something he had no intention of experiencing again.  
  
_So, I can't change or hurry any of… that. The question then becomes, what can I do?_  
  
Letting his gaze return to Hermione, he noted that she had started to nibble on her lower lip as she concentrated on the paper in front of her. Resisting the urge to do some nibbling of his own, he stood and hastily reached for his robes. Blinking owlishly at the unexpected flurry of movement, Hermione glanced up at him in surprise. "I'll be back by tea time," he informed her, and swiftly made for the exit.

* * *

  
  
It took almost forty minutes of pacing impatiently in the outer chamber of Maxime's office before a muffled pop heralded the arrival of an international Portkey.  
  
Naturally, The-Boy-Who-Lived-To-Be-A-Giant-Pain-In-His-Arse landed perfectly, neatly rising from a crouch as the swirl of magic subsided into nothingness around him. His damnable green eyes narrowed when Harry registered who was waiting for him, a subtle tension rippling through his narrow frame.

  
"What's happened?" Potter asked.  
  
"Nothing. Hermione simply expressed a wish to speak with you."  
  
The boy—man, really—cocked his head consideringly. "Like that, is it?"  
  
There were any number of ways that Severus could answer the question: he could let loose with a raft of scorn and sarcasm, or simply be crude enough to deflect the query. Hell, he could even prevaricate and play the fool. But Hermione had not taken the easy way out when dealing with Lucius, and he would not do any less. _After all_ , he thought ruefully, _what's good for the goose is good for the gander: if she has to be civil to Lucius, then I must do the same with her friends, however much it pains me to do so._  
  
"Yes, it is like that," he returned evenly, a part of him shuddering at that thought of having to once again reveal himself to Potter in such a fashion.  
  
The Gryffindor didn't say anything for a long moment, and Severus' skin prickled at the weight of the other man's unwavering regard. Uncomfortably, he was reminded of Albus at his worst; how many times had the old bastard levelled that same stare at him before rendering a distinctly unfavourable judgement?  
  
But astonishingly, Potter merely shrugged. "I had wondered what Minerva was up to with this scheme of hers. It seems that her assessment of the situation was spot on, as ever."  
  
"Did everyone see this trip for the matchmaking enterprise it was but the two of us?" Severus spat, genuinely annoyed.  
  
"Apparently so." Forestalling any further rejoinder, Potter held his hands up placatingly. "You wouldn't have had me come all this way if you didn't think it was important. So, I ask again – what is wrong with Hermione?"  
  
_In for a pence…_ "She is concerned that you may be mad or disgusted with her because of what was said under Veritaserum."  
  
Potter sighed, sagging visibly. "I'm not, I swear. Just furious that for the umpteenth time, Hermione has to pay the price for something I did."  
  
"Wonderful," he said flatly, stifling an unexpected quiver of understanding. "You should tell her that."  
  
That elicited a faint smirk. "I will. You know, it's just occurred to me that the two of you are a lot alike."  
  
_Keep your temper_ , he thought, hating the causal way that Potter needled him; his father had been the same way, albeit far crueller. "How so?"  
  
"She likes to fix people too. Lives for it, really."  
  
Reminding himself that Hermione would be cross if he slaughtered the man, Severus settled for a scowl and pointed at the door. "Come along, Potter. No need to waste any further time in such pleasant conversation."  
  
Potter followed him easily enough out of the office, remarking quietly, "Warm milk with cinnamon helps if she has a night terror, but stay away from anything that is lavender scented. That reminds her too much of our time in Malfoy Manor."  
  
Severus looked over his shoulder. Potter's mien was very nearly blank but for the faint crinkles of worry around his eyes. "I'll bear that in mind."  
  
"You do that."

* * *

  
  
For what felt like the hundredth time, Hermione re-read her letter to Harry. It wasn't her best effort, and the rambling missive lacked any pretence of finesse, but she was tired of dodging the issue. _This will have to do_ , she decided and reached for an envelope out of the basket. From the front of the carriage, Severus' boots sounded on the steps, and she smiled to herself. He still could be silent when he wanted, but he had been particularly careful to not sneak up on her since the duel. Oddly, there was a second set of footsteps following his, and she had only enough time to wonder about it and brush the curls back from her face before the door opened.  
  
Severus had the most peculiar expression on his face; if she didn't know better she would say that he appeared… abashed. Stepping aside quickly, he to revealed the shorter figure standing behind him, and Hermione felt her mouth drop open when she saw who it was.  
  
"Harry!" she exclaimed, springing to her feet and rushing over to her best friend.  
  
He pulled her into a hard embrace, and Hermione felt the sting of tears as she took in the welcome comfort of his arms. Pulling back slightly, he looked down at her upturned face and gave her his familiar crooked smile.  
  
"Hiya, Hermione."  
  
"Hiya back at you," she returned, knowing that she was grinning like a loon. "How long can you stay?"  
  
"Just the evening, unfortunately."

  
"I'm so glad to see you."  
  
"Me too."  
  
A rude snort emerged from the corner. "How… scintillating."  
  
Hermione turned, feeling a rush of affection for the dark-haired man scowling at the two of them. Releasing Harry, she walked over to Severus, trying to hold back her grin. Standing on tiptoe, she reached up and placed a soft buss on his cheek. He didn't so much as twitch a muscle, face remaining ruthlessly impassive, but Hermione was highly amused to note that his ears turned bright pink.  
  
"Thank you, Severus," she said, letting her hand linger on his chest. "It was very sweet of you to fetch Harry."  
  
"You're welcome," he mumbled, clearly embarrassed.  
  
It took every last scrap of Hermione's willpower to not giggle at his response. Alas, Harry did laugh, and Severus shot him a glare hard enough to strip paint off metal. It didn't faze her friend, however, and he wore a surprisingly impish smirk as he took the two of them in.  
  
Severus reached for her hand, removing it from his person; giving it gentle, if covert squeeze, he dropped it. "I'll be back in time for supper," he muttered and promptly billowed his way out of the compartment for the second time in as many hours.  
  
"Well, that's a first. I do believe that Snape just fled the field," Harry remarked, still chuckling.  
  
"Headmaster Snape," Hermione corrected automatically, causing Harry to roll his eyes at the habit. Sticking her tongue out at him, she walked over to the tea service and gestured to the steaming pot.  
  
"Madame Gresham just brought in fresh tea. Do you want a cup?"  
  
Flopping down on the sofa, he nodded. "Please. So…. you and the Headmaster, hmmm? Just how long has this been going on?"  
  
Hermione poured them both cups of tea and snagged several biscuits for good measure, suddenly nervous. Harry didn't seem at all upset by the revelation that she and Severus were… doing whatever they were doing, which was a relief. _What should I call it? Dating? We're not, not really. I guess we've reached an understanding, although that makes it sound like we're stuck in some Edwardian costume drama._  
  
"We've been dancing around the subject since a little after you left in October," she informed him, feeling her own face heat at the bland words. "I'm not sure we've reached the 'something going on' stage quite yet." _And that's only because I've been a_ ninny _, and not had the nerve to try and properly kiss him again, even though it's all I can think about, and I use every little excuse to touch him…_  
  
"But you will?" he asked, taking a cautious sip of the earl grey.  
  
"Yes." _Tonight, unless I chicken out again!_ Taking a deep breath, she went on. "I rather fancy him, and the feeling is mutual. And since Buffone... well, since the duel, we've become a lot closer."  
  
Harry reached a warm hand out. "Hermione, I don't care if you started shagging Draco Malfoy as long as he made you happy and treated you well. And as much as it pains me to admit it, the two of you make a lot more sense as a couple than Ron and you ever did." A bitter smile flicked over his face. "As the great prat himself was fond of saying, you're both brilliant, but scary."  
  
"Severus does actually have a sense of humour beyond sarcasm," she said, nibbling at an almond biscuit. "And he's been absolutely wonderful the last several weeks. I know that I wouldn't have dealt with things so well if it hadn't been for him."  
  
"Good," Harry said firmly. "Speaking of that delightful topic, how are you doing?"  
  
She made a face and then thrust the newly completed letter at him. "All the details are in here."  
  
"Give me the reader's digest, if you please."

  
"I'm doing alright."  
  
Harry raised an eyebrow.  
  
"Given that I'm on the receiving end of that glare from Severus on a daily basis, that's hardly going to work on me."  
  
"Would you just answer the ruddy question?"  
  
She sighed. "I did. Honestly, I don't really know what to tell you other than that. I'm sleeping through the night, and it's been almost a week since I've had a panic attack. If there was any silver lining in this whole matter, it's that Buffone didn't use any magic on me, which meant that I healed up in a matter of days, not weeks. As for the rest… when I'm not fine, Severus is there."  
  
He touched her hand again, something in his posture relaxing. "You'd subject me to the third degree if our roles were reversed."  
  
"I know. And you wouldn't want to talk about this any more than I do if the situation was reversed."  
  
"Will you forgive my prying?" he asked dryly.

  
She smiled. "Of course."  
  
"One more serious thing before we move on to the latest and greatest Ministry gossip," he announced grandly. "Try and contain your enthusiasm, woman."  
  
"But it's so very difficult. I so live for gossip…"  
  
"Hardly." Harry looked down at his cup for a long moment, eyes suddenly going bleak. "I want you to know that I'm not mad at you because of what happened when you testified against Ginny or disgusted, or anything of the like. I'm ashamed- for you, not at you."  
  
"Harry…"  
  
"Just listen, alright? You're my best mate, Hermione. You always will be, and it kills me that every time I get into some sort of trouble, you get dragged along for the ride." He swallowed, stopping for a second. "You've done so much for me and given so much up… all I want to do is protect you from further harm, and I fucking can't even do that!"  
  
For the second time that afternoon, Hermione went all teary. Getting up from her chair, she put her tea down and moved over to the sofa. "Budge over, you big softy. Thank you for telling me that. I needed to hear it." Throwing an arm over his shoulders, she pulled him into a hug. "Now get this through your thick skull- you're my best mate too, and that's not going to change no matter what. All I care about is whether or not you've got my back. I can do anything and deal with anyone as long as I'm not alone."  
  
"My back to yours," he affirmed fiercely.

  
"Always," Hermione replied.  
  
They both sniffled at the same time before the absurdity of it caused them to burst out laughing together. "We'll get through this, Harry. It may not always be better, but we'll make it through."  
  
"Damn straight." He waggled his black brows suggestively.  
  
"Believe it or not, there actually is a bit of juicy Ministry gossip you'll enjoy. You'll never believe what, or rather, who Marietta Edgecomb was caught doing last week…"

* * *

  
  
Severus slunk back into the private compartment with only minutes to spare before supper. Hermione gifted him a brilliant smile as he walked in, and it utterly threw him; he couldn't recall the last time someone was that pleased by something he'd done. Settling down to the table silently, he was content to play mother and pass around the various dishes, only listening to the conversation with half an ear.  
  
"…how soon will the decision be handed down?" Hermione inquired, unfolding her napkin.  
  
"Sometime after the new year, the barrister thinks. He said the judgement would likely take longer because I've asked for sole custody."  
  
Startled by the news, Severus spoke without meaning to. "Things are that bad with Ginevra that you've asked for sole custody?"  
  
Potter hesitated before answering. "Yeah. There's nothing overtly physical going on, but she goes into these rages when all she does is scream and stomp about. Nothing's ever good enough for her. I'm not going to let the kids face that alone, and frankly, Gin's not fighting me too hard for custody. Molly told me she's talking pretty seriously about trying out for a couple of French quidditch teams who are interested. If that's really the case… well, they're better off with me, anyway."  
  
Drawn in despite himself, Snape asked another question. "How long has it been going on?"  
  
"The rages? She's always had a temper, but the first one I remember was right after we got married."  
  
"The infamous breakup?" Hermione interjected softly.  
  
"Right in one."  
  
Hermione answered Snape's unspoken inquiry. "After the wedding, Molly and I walked in on Ron and Lavender Brown enjoying a bit of… backroom nookie, I guess you might say. It was shocking for any number of reasons, not the least that Ron and I had been dating for the better part of a year."  
  
"That's ballsy," Severus commented, not at all surprised to learn that Weasley was incapable of keeping it in his pants; he had found the ginger twat in any number of compromising situations over the years.  
  
"You don't know the half of it," Hermione muttered. "Molly hexed the two of them so hard, I was shocked that giant, flashing red 'A's didn't appear on their foreheads afterwards. Needless to say, Ron and I broke up that evening."  
  
"And Ginny and I had our first fight of our married life, not three hours in." Potter helped himself to the pile of potatoes and then continued. "Unfortunately, it's only gotten worse since then. In the beginning, I used to be able to calm her down. Now? Not a bloody chance in hell. I just get out of the way and hold onto the kids for dear life."  
  
Truthfully, Severus didn't remember all that much about Ginerva Potter other than some of her more dicey shenanigans with Longbottom during his first horrid year as Headmaster. Still, what Potter was describing seemed to be out of character for the supposedly beloved daughter of Arthur and Molly Weasley, and he pondered the root of it.  
  
"Did she ever receive counselling after what occurred in the Chamber of Secrets?" he finally asked.  
  
Potter shook his head. "No. Arthur and Molly considered it at the time, but Ginny wanted nothing of it, and the idea was dropped. How much do you think her rages might be related to it?"  
  
Severus gave him a sharp look. "What do you think? Did having the Dark Lord in your head improve your temper any?"  
  
"It didn't help any of us," Hermione observed, smoothing the suddenly turbulent air of the table. "I swear, I'd rather go through another round of Cruciatus than have to wear a Horcrux for any amount of time."  
  
Feeling somewhat chagrined, Severus proffered a better answer. "There is a good reason to worry about the long-term effects of that sort of dark magic feeding on the mind. It's something I've thought long and hard about, given how long I carried the Dark Mark. Granted, I was a miserable bastard even before I took the brand, and life after certainly didn't improve my outlook, but I've often wondered if having it rendered me just that much more unstable."  
  
Potter topped off his glass of wine with a grimace. "The notion certainly makes sense, although it doesn't explain why she seemed fine for so many years afterwards, or how it would have continued to affect her once Riddle was killed. Wouldn't that weaken the influence?"  
  
"It very well might have," Severus agreed, finding that he was no longer that hungry. "And perhaps that's why it did take so long to manifest. But the insidious nature of dark magic means that it influences the carrier long after it is removed; as a force, it warps whatever it touches, requiring you to fight it time and time again. Put another way, it's comparable to being an alcoholic. Even if you never indulge again, you will always have a weakness and susceptibility to drink. The habit is there, lying in wait. You will always be an alcoholic."  
  
"How reassuring," Potter remarked, saluting Severus with his wine glass before taking a deep drink.  
  
He raised a brow. "I have never sugar coated the truth for you, Potter, and I won't start now."  
  
Once again, Hermione stepped in. "Is this all supposition, or established theory?"  
  
"A bit of both." Deciding that Potter had the right idea, he refilled his own glass; he had a feeling it was going to be a long night. "It is a supposition in that the Dark Mark is a different sort of parasitical magic from a Horcrux, and I am basing my understandings on how I have personally experienced that particular… issue. A brand, such as a Dark Mark, mainly feeds off the raw magical power of a carrier, and as it is embedded in the flesh, is necessarily a physical construct. That's not to say that it doesn't affect the mental realm, of course, but that is more a by-product rather than a symptom. Horcruxes, by contrast, straddle the plain between both the ephemeral- that is to say the spiritual and mental- as well as the physical. Like a Dementor, it feeds off the psychic energy of the host. Moreover, unlike the Dark Mark, it is inherently flexible: it mutates and moulds itself to the victim to better extract the life force." Severus paused, finding that he had fallen back into lecture mode without meaning too. "It would be my hypothesis that your wife was warped, for lack of a better term, by the months-long exposure to the Horcrux. Not only did it sap some of her essential life force and magnify what negative traits existed, but it also altered the very way in which she processed the world around her."  
  
Hermione leaned back in her chair, expression neutral. "Be that as it may, why weren't Harry and I affected in the same fashion? We both were exposed to Horcruxes over the years. Hell, Harry was one."  
  
Stomach churning, Severus shrugged again. In what remained of the cold, analytical part of his mind, he registered a faint amusement; there was a circular logic to this discussion, an ironic echo to the conversation conducted with Lucius a month earlier.  
  
"I don't have all the answers," he eventually admitted. "It could be that the magic left by Lily insulated Potter to a certain degree, or there was a difference because of how the Horcrux was created. Your exposure," he motioned to Hermione, "…occurred at an older age and was of a shorter duration. That may have made a difference."  
  
"You must have a theory, though."  
  
"Assuming it's not simply down to sheer, dumb luck, I think that it has to do with how the event is processed afterwards. We three have all acknowledged the inherent darkness that is found within. To some extent, we've also reckoned with it, and learned to hear that voice for what it is; hate and fear." Gazing at Potter, he continued quietly, "If, as you said, the entire experience was swept under the carpet, perhaps Ginevra never learned that lesson, and the effects of the Horcrux continues to distort her emotions and thoughts. Then again, maybe not. Sometimes madness is just there, and it needs no helping hand to take over." His voice turned sardonic. "Take me, for example. Once a miserable bastard, always a miserable bastard."  
  
Hermione appeared troubled by his flip statement. "Are you truly that miserable now?" she asked, and Severus knew that she wasn't fishing for a compliment, but referring to something far more profound than simple happiness.  
  
"No. Not like that. Not anymore," he answered seriously, and it was the truth. Severus wanted so much more than to be content with his lot in life. For the first time, not just had dreams for the future but felt like happiness could be possible. _And doesn't that just bugger it all?_ "I notice you don't object to the label of a bastard."  
  
"Your words, not mine."  
  
Severus smiled faintly at her rejoinder, seeing her evident affection and taking no offence.  
  
Potter smirked at their exchange, appearing oddly pleased. "Good thing Hermione's a glutton for punishment, huh? And you both do like to fix people…"  
  
"So sayeth the man with the documented saviour complex."  
  
"Oh, come now, it's not as if I had a choice the first time, and really most things after that weren't my fault…" __

* * *

  
  
By unspoken agreement, they touched on only the most superficial of topics the rest of the meal, and Harry declined dessert, citing a desire to not disturb either Maxime or Minerva making his Portkey any later.  
  
"I'll walk you back to Madame Maxime's office," Hermione offered, standing up and stretching her back as Madame Gresham bustled in to deal with the dishes.  
  
"As will I," Severus announced, and she gave him a cross look.  
   
"Humour me," he said, and Potter unexpectedly came to his aid.  
  
"You can take care of the big, bad, bogeymen by yourself, Hermione. We know that. But we just like it better when you don't have to do it all alone."  
  
"Put it that way…" she sighed, not fighting it too hard.  
  
"We do," Severus muttered somewhat sourly. _Talk about strange bedfellows. This will take some getting used to…_

* * *

  
  
Giving Harry a last hug, Hermione stepped back as his Portkey began to glow.  
  
"I'll let you know once I hear anything, alright?" he told them, and she could see the weight of his worries return to his narrow shoulders as he braced for the trip.  
  
"Potter," Snape said suddenly, "...should you need a place to hide for a couple of hours, speak with Minerva. She can always arrange another Portkey here, and we have space."  
  
Hermione was stunned, and if Harry's open jaw was any indication, he felt the same. "Thank yo…" he began, before the Portkey pulled him back to Britain in a great whoosh of spinning magic. Turning fully to stare at Severus, she saw that his ears had gone bright pink again.  
  
"What?" he muttered defensively. "I've spent too much bloody time of my life keeping him from ruin. No point in taking chances now."  
  
_You are just as much of a softy as Harry is_ , Hermione thought, smothering the retort. She didn't know if he had made the offer for Harry's sake, or for hers, but it didn't really matter. The end result was the same. "You really are a sweet man," she said, looping an arm about his as they left the antechamber.  
  
"That's utter tripe, and you know it. While I might occasionally perform actions that can be seen in a saccharine light, I am not, nor will I ever be, sweet." His rich baritone was at its caustic finest, and she smirked at the tone, appreciating how it seemed to ripple through the night air.  
  
Stepping outside into a deserted portico, Hermione looked around, pleased by the lack of people about; it was a bloody annoyance to be stared at every time she left the Express, and there was no way she was going to be able to do anything with Severus if there was an audience. "Shall we take the long way back, Headmaster?"  
  
"If you wish it," he replied, still appearing mildly disgruntled and missing her innuendo entirely.  
  
She gave him an arch glance, willing him to pay attention. "I do. Maxime was telling me yesterday that one of the bewitched rose gardens is in full bloom, and I'd like to see it. Supposedly, the variant is what the enchanted rose from _La Belle et la Bête_ is based upon."  
  
"And is a scholar's interest the only reason that you wish to swan about in a rose garden?" The words left his mouth in a wave of harsh sarcasm, and Severus froze; she saw a flicker of panic in his dark gaze as he realised that he had inadvertently hit the nail on the head. "Hermione, I didn't mean to…"  
  
The instant and overwhelming guilt that she saw written on his face was a timely reminder that she wasn't the only one who needed careful handling. Hermione vowed to be more mindful of it, starting immediately. Teasing him was only fun when he responded appropriately; making him feel bad was not.  
  
He held himself perfectly still under her hands as she pulled him close. Reaching up, she cupped his cheek tenderly. "I know that you didn't mean it that way. You've been marvellous. And maybe I do have another reason to want to walk in the rose garden. It has been almost two weeks, and you know I don't have nearly as much patience as you do."  
  
Briefly, he closed his eyes. "Truly, I don't mean to rush you or push you away. I just… Potter puts me on edge, and tonight's conversation wasn't exactly cheerful…"  
  
"I am well aware of your sharp tongue, Severus, and will save my anger for those times when you've actually done something to deserve it," Hermione interjected quietly, unable to watch him wallow further. "Just as long as you remember that when my incessant need to meddle becomes too much."

  
"I will certainly endeavour to do so," he murmured ruefully, hands coming up to encircle her waist. "At the risk of sounding patronising, are you sure?"  
  
For a second time that evening, she rose to her tiptoes and tilted her chin; obligingly, he lowered his head, black eyes glittering. "Yes," she breathed, and slowly brushed her mouth across his.  
  
The texture of his lips reminded her of dense velvet, and she could taste a hint of wine as he parted them. But he remained frustratingly passive under her touch, and she wanted more than the simple slide of skin against skin. _I need to know_ , she thought, lust and nerves combining to make her palms go damp. _I must know that I can do this…_ From the tension practically vibrating off his frame, Hermione could tell that he was holding himself back, and she gave a little growl of annoyance, nipping his bottom lip in rebuke.  
  
"Minx," he all but purred and slanted his mouth more aggressively over hers. And just like that, he took over the kiss, tongue sweeping over her lips in an imperious demand; she could feel the rapid pound of his heart under her hand, and as Severus pulled her hips to his, she registered the hard ridge of his arousal.  
  
Letting her head fall back, Hermione moaned. Nothing was humming in her blood but the welcome rush of desire and her knees went weak with relief: unlike the first time they'd kissed, her mind and body were in complete agreement about what she was feeling.  
  
Abruptly, a door banged open behind them, and Severus swiftly pushed her into the shadows of the portico, using his body to block her from view of the Beauxbatons students leaving the administrative building.  
  
Hermione let out a shaky breath, resting her head against his shoulder. "Whoops," she whispered.  
  
His laugh was a low rumble in the dark. "No better than seventh years, we are."  
  
"Oh, I don't know. Seventh years wouldn't be foolish enough to get caught snogging at the front doors," Hermione replied, looking up at his flushed face.  
  
"True." He stroked her cheek with his thumb, something approaching a smile lingering on his lips. "Alright, then?"  
  
"Perfect."  
  
"Excellent."  
  
Allowing challenge to creep into her expression, Hermione waggled her eyebrows suggestively. "Now that we've got that sorted, shall we take a little stroll?"  
  
"Insatiable woman. Do remember that this was your idea when I end up hexing Maxime's precious roses due to some ridiculous provocation or another. There is a reason that Pomona never lets me near hers…"

* * *

  
  
As they slipped through the temperature-control barrier, Hermione sighed blissfully as the luscious scent and summer-warmed air of the garden enveloped them; the enchantment created the feeling of an evening in August, rather than the middle of December. Completing the romantic illusion, the moon hung low over the rolling grounds, and several small paths wound enticingly away from them. In the distance, she could hear the low burble of a fountain.  
  
"Isn't this lovely?" she asked, aware that she sounded slightly breathless.  
  
"If you insist," he answered sceptically, none too impressed by the tumbling rows of bushes.  
  
"I do. Come on, let's find the fountain."  
  
Pulling Severus down the left-hand path, she moved deeper into the gardens until she entered a circular clearing that contained the water feature, pleased to note that they were alone again.  
  
Severus reached out and idly rubbed a deep green leaf between his fingers, and she tried not to imagine his fingers stroking her like that. "I will admit, unlike Hogwarts' roses, these specimens appear to be of a high enough quality for potions ingredients. Not just all scent and no substance."  
  
Hermione snorted. "Severus… are you daring to suggest that Pomona's roses are all fur coat and no knickers?"  
  
That earned her another smirk, and he dropped the leaf, stepping closer. "Perhaps, although I would never be so foolish as to say that to her face."  
  
"I shudder to think what her retribution would be."  
  
A wry chuckle escaped, and she could feel the heat of his body next to hers as he pulled her into a loose embrace. "One would have to imagine that I would become even more prickly than I am currently."  
  
"More like thorny," she said, twining one hand about his.  
  
"Thorny?" he repeated, sotto voice. "I'm afraid you're off by a letter, sweetheart."  
  
"And what letter would that…" she began, before being silenced by a demanding kiss. But rather than stay and plunder her mouth, Severus trailed his lips down the delicate column of her throat, nibbling lightly at pale skin that she obligingly revealed. Hermione inhaled deeply, senses spinning; the smell of the roses had been supplanted by the warm, unmistakably male scent of Severus.  
  
Pressing her curves against the hard lines of his body, she revelled in the heady rush of desire sweeping through her. She felt like her heart had rocketed into overdrive, and her skin had become highly sensitive to every brush and press of Severus' tall frame. Working a hand under the front of his jumper, she jerked a few buttons loose from his shirt and slid her hand onto the hot skin of his abdomen; he gave a low hiss, and she could feel the muscles tighten as she stroked him.  
  
"Woman…" he whispered, and she loved how it was a threat and invocation all rolled up into one possessive, grateful word.  
  
"Mine," Hermione answered, using her nails to lightly scratch a teasing circle around his bellybutton. "Kiss me again, Severus."  
  
His expression went as fierce as she'd ever seen it, and his grip tightened on her hips almost painfully. Breath warm, he nipped at the corner of her lips before tilting his head downward again. She was an equal partner in their second meeting, letting her tongue dance with his. The taste and scent of him wrapped around her in a blanket of desire, and Hermione gloried in reactions that they were effortlessly pulling from each other.  
  
Just as Severus' hands had began to roam in earnest, a muffled shriek rent the night air, followed by a distinctly male yip. Breaking apart, they both went for their wands; Severus cast a _Lumos_ bright enough to illuminate half the garden, and Hermione wrapped them both in a shield. Frantic movement in the rosebushes several feet away gave a clue as to the location of the interlopers, and Severus stalked over, appearing absolutely thunderous.  
  
A step behind, Hermione could make nothing of the jumble of writhing robes and limbs until the familiar crest of Hogwarts finally came into view.  
  
Rebecca Mulligan and her Beauxbatons beau had fallen into the lee of several large bushes, contriving to get hopelessly tangled amongst the branches and thorns; they had been engaged in exactly the same activities as she and Severus had been if the lad's untucked shirt and Rebecca's swollen lips were any indications.  
  
_Oh, bugger it all_ , Hermione swore mentally, hands flying to her own wild locks even as her cheeks heated. _Did they see us, or were we all just terribly unlucky in_ choice _of location?_  
  
"Merde," the boy gasped, wincing as the enchanted branches began to wind tighter; the smell of blood wafted through the air, and Hermione saw that both students were covered in deep cuts.  
  
_Merde, indeed._ _It's going to take forever to get them cleaned up, and we are going to have to destroy several of the bushes to even get them out…_  
  
Severus sent her a look that was very nearly a glower. "What did I tell you?"  
  
Narrowing his eyes and brandishing his wand, he began to blast the younger couple free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a bit dense, and perhaps to talk-y for some people, but I find in-depth discussions on magical philosophy interesting. As much as I love smut and fluff, it's nice to dig a little deeper sometimes. Zigadenus does a brilliant job a writing complex, multi-layered stories (seriously, go read "Inkstains")- does anyone else have any similar recommendations?
> 
> La Belle et la Bête is, of course, the story of Beauty and the Beast.
> 
> An extra big hug to ladykardasi for beta'ing this chapter- thank you, dearie!
> 
> Likewise, my appreciation to all those reading and leaving comments- you rock my world!


	13. Every Rose Has Its Thorn

_19 December 2007_

The boy's name, it turned out, was François Bourdain. By dint of trying to shield Rebecca Mulligan as they fell, he had received the brunt of the injuries in addition to further wounds incurred during the twenty-minute extraction; Severus had finally resorted to calling Maxime because the roses were being so viciously unruly. Alas, even with the French Headmistress' formidable magic they had been forced to destroy a half-dozen bushes, making her rather cross with the Hogwarts contingent.

"Forty-three years this garden has been here, and the worst thing to befall any of my students was the occasional scratch and a snagged shawl. How is it that the mere presence of anyone from your school turns the mundane into the murderous?" Maxime grumbled, hands on hips militantly.

"Talent," Severus answered icily as he stood over the two prone students. "Generations upon generations of talent."

"Talent," the other woman said, "…is not the adjective that I would apply. Cursed, perhaps, and that would certainly explain why Britain is blessedly separated from the rest of Europe by such swift and deep waters."

Hermione felt simultaneously embarrassed and insulted at the bald insinuation: yes, Hogwarts had a rather well-deserved reputation for mayhem, but on the other hand, trouble seemed to find them all too easily- Buffone being the perfect example. But before she could muster any retort, Severus straightened up and levelled a cold, hard look at the French Headmistress. It packed enough of a punch that the woman stepped back, only belatedly realising how much she'd put her foot in it.

"Shall I send you a rowan tree in compensation?" he drawled snidely, the sharp edge of a sneer lurking in his expression. His foreboding appearance gave Hermione pause; she had not seen this side of Severus for several months and it was an unwelcome reminder of the start of the trip.

Maxime was not cowed for long, however. "You know what I mean, Severus. Need I remind you of what happened during the last Tri-Wizard Tournament?"

"Is this a conversation you really wish to start, Madame?"

A muffled whimper from Rebecca finally halted the sniping, and Hermione exhaled in relief as both Maxime and Severus turned to their respective students and began casting healing spells.

But for the lone hoot of an owl and the burble of water from the fountain, the garden was quiet as they worked. Hermione watched with interest at the two different casting styles; Severus favoured a far more musical approach, using a Roman healing chant that she vaguely recognised, whereas Maxime was nearly silent, her wand moving about in graceful if complicated twirls that reminded Hermione of nothing less than a waltz. Once all of the vines were removed from the two students' clothing, the Heads stepped back to survey the damage. Both students had deep lacerations over their legs, hips, and in the case of Bourdain, backside.

Mouth pursed in an assessing manner, Maxime spoke again. "The remaining thorns will have to be extracted by hand, I'm afraid. This variety of rose is rather resistant to magical summoning, and enough have penetrated the skin that some privacy is called for in the removal. I shall take Mr Bourdain up to our healers for treatment. Will you accompany us, or do you have what is required in your carriages?"

"We have come fully prepared," Snape responded, voice still acidic.

"As you wish. Mr Bourdain, do you think you can walk or shall I summon a stretcher?"

The Beauxbatons student shifted to his knees on the ground, shuddering as thorns dug more deeply in. Slanting a glance over to the still crying Mulligan, he came to a quick decision. "I can walk, Madame Maxime, but I will stay with Rebecca until she is healed. It is entirely my fault that we fell into the bushes, and I will not abandon her now." Reaching bloodied fingers out, he grasped the girl's shaky hand and earned a watery smile.

Determining that she best step in to avert another dust up, Hermione proffered a hand up to Rebecca Mulligan. "We would be more than happy to heal your student, Maxime. There is no need for him to wait to be treated. As the Headmaster noted, we have a full healer's kit, and the two of us are well versed in dealing with this sort of thing."

The woman grunted, giving her student a critical once over. "Fine. Mr Bourdain, check in with your head of form when you return to the school."

Maxime stayed long enough to ensure that her student could adequately walk and then swept off, her temper leaving a nearly visible wake. Gingerly making their way back to the carriages, Hermione helped the two students settle into more comfortable positions on the sofas while Severus raided the medical cabinet. His face was expressionless when he handed her a small bundle of disinfectant, a topical pain potion, and tweezers.

It was disheartening to see that cold mask again, the lack of emotion making it blatantly obvious how much Severus had opened up over the course of the last several months. When she reached out to touch his forearm, he turned as if he had not seen the gesture, conjuring a privacy screen as he bent to examine Bourdain's injuries.

 _So much for my plans for the evening_ , she mused darkly. Suppressing a sigh, Hermione walked over to her student. "Let's start with something for the pain, shall we?"

* * *

An hour passed as Hermione painstakingly pulled out thorns and healed cuts; Mulligan took it with an admirable calm, although it helped that her beau was murmuring soft words of praise and encouragement from his corner of the compartment.

 _Well_ , she thought with some amusement as she listened in with half an ear, _if anything, this experience is teaching me what the most current romantic French sayings are…_

Looking at the girl's pallid, scored skin, she couldn't help but wince. Mulligan would be tender for several days yet; the magical properties of the roses meant that the wounds would heal slower than normal. Straightening from her odd position on the floor, Hermione could hold back another grimace from the throb of pain in her lower back. _I wonder if I can convince Severus to give me a back rub and whisper sweet nothings in my ear when we are done?_ she wondered, slanting a glance to the other sofa where he was still working.

He was glowering darkly as he carefully swabbed the boy's back with disinfectant, which was progress of a sorts, she decided. As if sensing her regard, he looked up, and the simmering anger in his eyes made her flinch. _Is he mad at me, too? Bloody hell… I suppose the honeymoon had to end sometime._

"Miss Mulligan," Hermione said quietly, looking away "…I've finally finished. Let's get you sitting up. I have one more potion that I want you to take."

"May I change?" the girl asked, a flush travelling over her face as she took in how much of her tunic and skirt had been ripped.

"Of course. Do you require any assistance?"

"No, Professor. I think I can manage." Hermione cautiously watched as she rose; other than a brief wobble, the girl seemed able enough. Handing her the second potion, she motioned for Mulligan to head to her compartment.

Vanishing the small pile of thorns and debris, Hermione puttered uselessly as her gut churned with nerves. She hated this sort of interpersonal fighting; her worst times at Hogwarts hadn't been the actual battles, but the times when the boys had ostracised her for some stupid reason or another. And if that happened between her and Severus now, after everything they had gone through…

_Stop. Don't start believing that the worst has happened until it does. You have no idea why Severus is so angry, and indeed no clue if he's actually mad at you or merely at the whole bloody situation. Hell, it could just be a case of blue balls. Circe knows Ron was always at his worst after being cockblocked… have some faith, woman!_

"I have likewise finished, Mr Bourdain," Severus said, breaking suddenly into the silence. "Hold still while I return your clothes to a state of decency."

The boy stood docilely as Severus gave several brusque taps of his wand, the tattered fabric mending in a flash. "The repairs won't last terribly long," Severus informed him sourly. "But you should at least be able to get back to your rooms without further incident."

"Thank you, sir."

Hermione handed Bourdain a twin of the last potion that she'd given Mulligan, and he downed it without complaint. Cautious footsteps sounded, heralding the reappearance of Mulligan.

"Headmaster, Professor…" she began, voice trembling slightly. "We didn't mean… that is to say, we had no intent to spy on you, and we won't blab…"

At the Ravenclaw's halting words, Snape's eyes turned the glittering, hard black that Hermione remembered all too well from her own youth. She stepped forward hastily, meaning to intercede. Head snapping in Hermione's direction, Snape pinned her into place with a glare that was as effective as any sticking charm.

"Miss Mulligan," he intoned coldly, attention back on the girl, "…you have exactly five minutes to say goodnight to Mr Bourdain. You may step outside of the carriage to do so, but you will remain in sight at all times. Do I make myself clear?"

Tears reappearing and much chastened, Mulligan nodded; a flash of protective anger crossed Bourdain's face, but he was smart enough to keep his mouth shut. Offering a gallant arm to the girl, he escorted her out to the garden as Snape continued to scowl at their retreating forms. The ongoing show of foul temper had Hermione's own irritation spiking; while she could well understand being aggravated by the events of the evening, there was no need to speak to either student so harshly for what was, in essence, an accident.

With a hollow thunk, Snape tossed an empty bottle of disinfectant on the table. Briefly, his fingers tightened into fists; Hermione saw that his hands were streaked with traces of Bourdain's blood.

"Severus…" she began, suddenly feeling terribly uncertain as she saw the tumult in his expression.

He cut her off. "Don't," he hissed. "Don't say a bloody thing, Granger." With that, he flung open the compartment door and strode down the dark hallway.

"Well, fuck," Hermione muttered and subsided onto the sofa with a sigh.

_Bollocks. How am I going to sort this one out?_

* * *

Thankfully, Rebecca Mulligan didn't try to push the edict, returning to the Express in under three minutes. Tugging on her braid anxiously, she peered around the room as she entered. Seeing that the Headmaster wasn't present, she spoke beseechingly to Hermione.

"Professor Granger, I really am sorry. We weren't trying to spy on you and the Headmaster, and we won't say anything to the others, I promise…"

She put a hand up. "I believe you, and I'm not angry. Accidents like this do happen, and my primary concern is for your health and safety. "

The girl relaxed slightly. "François and I… ah, well, we just lost track of the time. You know how it is."

Hermione couldn't help but let loose a short laugh at that blushing admission. She and Severus had rather done the same, so it wasn't as if she had a leg to stand on when it came to judgement. "It is a circumstance that I can fully appreciate, however…"

"However," Severus' deep voice cut in from the doorway causing both women to jump, "…there is a reason why we have a firm curfew and expect you to abide by it. As Professor Granger noted, your health and safety are our chief concerns. We can look after neither when you willingly put yourself at risk by breaking the rules. Even had you not fallen into the rose bushes, you would have been tardy getting back to the Express."

As he stepped into the soft lamplight of the private compartment, Hermione saw that Snape's previous anger was utterly extinguished; instead, his mien was one of weary indifference. She noted that the blood was gone from his hands and he had changed into a jumper, the porcelain hue of his skin glowing against the dark blue of the fabric.

"I will also remind you that you are currently representing Hogwarts and that your behaviour in all areas should reflect that responsibility," he continued softly.

"I know, and I am so very sorry," Rebecca Mulligan repeated, shamefaced. "It won't happen again, Headmaster."

Severus stared at her for a long moment, fingers idly tapping out a pattern on his thigh. "See that it doesn't, Miss Mulligan, and we won't have any need to speak of this evening again."

"Yes, sir."

"Off to bed with you."

Hermione rose stiffly from the sofa as the girl turned. "One further thing, Miss Mulligan."

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Should your injuries not heal in a timely fashion or worsen in any way, come to one of us immediately. What remains are wounds, not punishments meant to be endured. Understood?"

Mulligan nodded, a hand unconsciously rubbing at her sore hip. "Yes, Professor Granger. I will."

"Then as the Headmaster said, off to bed with you."

Hermione waited until she heard the quiet click of the girl's door before approaching Severus. He stood passively under her regard, gaze oddly flat. There was a whiff of fire whisky on his breath, and she wanted nothing more than to wrap him tightly in her arms; clearly, something in the evening's happenings had affected him strongly. However, his body language was frustratingly opaque, and she didn't know if he would welcome her touch. _He certainly didn't earlier…_

"Will you tell me what is wrong?"

Severus sighed, shoulders sagging. "Not tonight, Hermione. Tomorrow… tomorrow we can talk. I just need to be alone right now."

The refusal stung, especially given their recent closeness, but she reminded herself that they had different ways of coping; he had respected her wishes in past events, and she would do no less. Hermione nodded, hiding her disappointment and stepped back. "If that's what you need."

"It is." He glanced away, a curtain of black hair swinging forward to cover his face. "Good night."

"Good night, Severus."

He didn't look at her again as he left the room.

* * *

Waffling between tears and utter frustration, Hermione got ready for bed. While changing into her sleep shorts, she discovered that her period had started.

"As if this day hadn't gone pear shaped enough," she muttered, snagging a clean pair of knickers from her drawer and performing the menstrual charm. "Little wonder I've wanted to climb Severus like a tree the last couple of days."

With a huff, she got into bed, punching her pillow several times and trying to find a comfortable position. Extinguishing the lights, Hermione stared into the dark, mind ruminating over the crazy day.

Until the mishap in the rose garden, it had been entirely lovely. She was still surprised by Severus' willingness to not just fetch Harry for her, but to socialise freely with him. Indeed, their conversation about Ginny had been illuminating in more than one way, and she wondered if she'd ever actually understand what made Severus tick. At times he was blunt and straightforward, and others… well, he hadn't been the Head of Slytherin for nothing. Complex and crafty didn't even begin to describe his personality.

_And good God, can he kiss…_

It had been such a relief to lock lips and feel nothing but desire. To a certain extent, the single life suited Hermione; she could research to her heart's content and get lost in all sorts of projects without worrying about neglecting someone else's needs. But that didn't mean that she hadn't been lonely, or that she hadn't missed the physical and emotional benefits of being in a relationship. She and Severus had been such a solid team over the last several weeks… and now she had no idea where they stood.

 _Tonight was merely a setback, not a failure_ , she told herself bracingly. _Sleep will give us both a bit of badly needed distance, and we'll straighten everything out in the morning…_

But try as she might, sleep wouldn't come. Time crawled by as she lay in her bed, restlessly tossing to and fro. Finally deciding that she might as well try to read for a while—a suitably trashy romance novel had been sitting untouched on her bedside table for weeks—Hermione flipped on the light.

A soft knock immediately sounded at her door.

She blinked at the noise. _It must be Mulligan come for another pain potion… I wonder if I should give her something stronger?_ Reaching for her robe, Hermione made for the door. Unlatching it, she was startled to see Severus, not a student, lurking in the gloom of the hallway.

"Have you been standing here for long?" she said, confused.

"I… yes." Mouth tightening into a bloodless line, he finally looked her in the eye. Defeat was the primary emotion in his gaze, but she could also see a healthy serving of self-reproach as well. "It would be best… that is to say, I've changed my mind. Could I stay with you tonight?"

From the stiff way that he was holding himself, she could tell that he was expecting her to say no, and it roused her protective instincts in a flash. For all that she was frustrated with his behaviour, nothing he'd said or done warranted the kind of punishment that he was obviously expecting. From their conversations, she knew that he seldom had a soft place to land in times of crisis, but his shuttered expression hammered home just how poorly he'd been treated over the years. _God, he really is a mess! I'll get an explanation tomorrow, but right now we both need something else._ Pulling him in, she quietly shut and locked the door behind him. Wrapping her arms around his waist, Hermione enveloped him in a tight hug, trying to let her body say what her tongue couldn't. Gratifyingly, he immediately returned the gesture, and she felt him rest his cheek on top of her head.

"You foolish man," she chided calmly, taking a deep breath in as she buried her face in his chest. "You are always welcome in my bed."

"Am I?" he whispered, voice muffled in her hair. "Even when…"

"Even when you've been an arse, Severus."

"I know I was out of bounds tonight. I'll apologise."

"I trust you to do the right thing."

Hermione felt him swallow, some of the stress leeching from his tall frame. They stood motionlessly in the quiet of her room several minutes; when his heartbeat had finally slowed to its normal rhythm, she glanced up. "Come to bed, darling. The morning will come soon enough."

Wordlessly, they shed their robes and crawled into her bed. Once more she extinguished the light, curling up to Severus' side and giving a contented sigh as a long arm snaked around to pull her closer. Despite the feeling of comfort that flowed over her, she was aware that Severus was still laying nearly rigid in the bed; Hermione ran a soothing hand up and down his chest as her eyes finally started to droop closed. Shifting slightly, his fingers tangled through hers, gently stopping the movement.

"Sorry," she mumbled.

"It's alright. I'm a bit on edge, that's all."

Hermione had thrown a leg over his hip, and she now registered the hardness of his half-erect penis under her thigh. "Ahh."

His tone dropped an octave, humour dancing through it. "Indeed."

Her mouth went dry, arousal stirring in her own belly. _My period would have to start today of all days, wouldn't it? It couldn't have waited until tomorrow… still, there are other things…_

Tilting her head, she nuzzled the underside of his chin, the skin under her lips faintly prickly with stubble. "Severus, there are other ways we could relax."

Exhaling slowly, he wound his fingers through her curls, tugging lightly. "Woman…" His voice trailed off as she ran her mouth down the long column of his neck, nipping at his bobbing Adam's apple. "As tempting as you are, there's more than one reason I'm on edge."

An off note in his words had her halting, and she propped herself up on one arm, trying to get a better view of his expression in the dark. "Do you want to discuss those reasons right now?"

"No."

"Can you at least explain why those other reasons present a problem?"

"Because I'm in a shitty mood, thus making my self-control an issue." Severus' deft fingers ghosted down, stroking her cheek tenderly. "I don't ever want to hurt you in that way, Hermione, and as angry as I still am, it's not a risk that I want to take. Not for our first time. Seeing that look on your face once was more than enough "

"Well, that's a good reason." She sighed, dropping back down to the mattress, attempting to shove her own desire back down. "For the record, I don't think that your control would decamp the field that badly. I mean, I'm good, but not that good."

He chuckled, the sound a pleasing vibration against her ear. Hermione deliberately stilled her hands, not wishing to tease. "It's a bit of a moot point, anyway. Alas, as the Danes are fond of saying, the communists have just entered the funhouse."

"Mmmm… angry, messy sex? See, now that's not relaxing in the least. We are better off getting some sleep."

Hermione debated about how honest she wanted to be and decided that if they were going to be spending any time in bed together that she'd best be frank. "It's not so much a concern about mess—I mean, that's what cleansing charms are for—but rather that I'm terribly sensitive the first three days, limiting what we can do."

"Duly noted."

He didn't sound at all put off by her candid admission, for which Hermione was grateful. They both fell silent again, and Hermione luxuriated in the warmth of Severus' body next to her, the faint spice of his cologne teasing her nose. However, as the minutes went by she noticed that he had not relaxed one bit; if anything, he was more tense. And his erection…

_Well, that definitely hasn't gotten smaller. If anything…_

Making up her mind, she slid her hand down to his waistband. _Let it not be said that I'm not a Gryffindor._ "Severus," she murmured, letting her fingers drift in small circles. "At the risk of sounding repetitive, there are other options. Let me pleasure you."

"Hermione…"

"Just with my hands. You'll hardly be at risk of losing control that way."

"You don't need to. I'll be fine in awhile."

He hadn't made a move to stop her, and she took it as tacit permission to continue. "Perhaps. But this way is a hell of lot quicker, and has the added bonus of actually helping you get to sleep."

The heat radiating off him seemed to increase as she spoke, the soft fabric under her hands pulling tight as his desire intensified.

"Please. I want to." Hermione ran light fingers over his cotton-covered cock, feeling it twitch as she did.

"I wasn't the only one who had a rough evening," he rumbled uncertainly. "After the way I acted, you can't possibly want to…"

Hermione smiled, sensing victory. "Oh, yes, I can. Comfort comes in all sorts of forms, you know." She cupped the bulge in his pants, squeezing it more firmly.

"And this would bring you comfort how?" he gasped, sucking air in through his clenched teeth.

"Pleasuring you—making you happy in any way—is something that I would take great comfort in," she told him, letting all her affection fill her voice. Pulling back, she waited. While there had never been an absolute refusal in his answers, she still didn't want to bully him into something like this. "Yes, or no? And truly, I won't be mad if you do decline."

It seemed like the longest half-minute before Severus' breath escaped in one great whoosh. "Yes," he hissed, flexing his hips hard against her quiescent hand, "…god, yes!"

Resisting the urge to cackle with glee, Hermione leisurely began to fondle him, trying to envision his proportions in her mind. _He's a hell of_ lot _bigger than Ron, that's for sure!_ As if sensing that her mind was not fully engaged on the task at hand, Severus reached over and nudged her chin up, kissing her thoroughly.

"Just how sensitive are we talking about?" he asked, a tantalising hand dropping down to her waist.

"I can only tolerate very light touches on my breasts and nothing… penetrative. It's also pretty hard for me to orgasm," she admitted breathlessly, biting back a moan as his fingers skated over the soft skin of her stomach.

"I do believe that I can work within those constraints."

She laughed at the smugness implicit in the statement, finally dipping her hand under his waistband. "Let's worry about this constraint first, shall we?"

Encountering the thatch of crisp black hair at his groin, she smiled to herself. It had been so long since she'd lost herself in the joy of discovering a new partner, and the fact that it was Severus Snape, of all people... Her heart pounded thickly in her chest, a curious rush of joy filling her.

"Hermione, please…" the man in question moaned, and in response she wrapped her fingers around the slick head of his cock, pumping slowly. As she slid a hand further down the length of his shaft, she was pleased to note that he was thick enough that her fingers couldn't meet, the sheer heat of him coming as a stark contrast to the chilly air of the room.

"Oh, Severus, you feel so good…"

He half-laughed, half-gasped as she tightened her grip. "That's supposed to be my line."

"Whoops. You can take points later. Tell me, shall I take my time, or would you rather I got to the point?"

"By all means, explore to your heart's content."

Reaching the base of his cock, Hermione squeezed, murmuring a lubrication charm as she did so. Another flare of wandless magic had the lamp clicking on. She couldn't help but grin wolfishly at the sight that met her gaze.

Severus had thrown an arm up to block the light, but as he lowered it, she greedily took in the way his pale face was flushed with excitement and his hair tumbled all over her pillow like spilt ink. If she had ever seen anything sexier in her life, Hermione couldn't recall it.

"What?" she teased as he raised a brow, "No point in doing this in the dark. I want to see you."

The comment pleased him, and he let his head fall back, arching slightly into her grasp. Other than a hand clasping her waist, he had ceded control entirely over to her; the power of it was intoxicating. Methodically, she worked the lubrication from her palm back upwards over his glans until she saw his free hand clinch the sheet hard enough to leave wrinkles.

"Where on earth did you learn that little trick?" he panted.

"Switching the lamp on wandlessly?" she asked innocently.

Severus tried to glare, but the effect was rather spoiled when he groaned deeply. "You know what I mean. The lubrication spell."

"Let's just say that living with Harry and Ron in a tent was an educational experience in several different areas. "

Sitting up all the way, she continued to tug his prick, avidly watching to see what made him jerk and shudder. After nearly a minute, his eyes opened again. They stared at each other, the atmosphere gone heavy with promise. Abruptly, the silken flare of his magic swirled around them, and she tilted her head inquiringly.

"What was that?"

It was his turn to smirk. "Silencing Charm. Now that I can properly see your face, I have a feeling that you are going to try and make me scream."

"Oh, a challenge," she said with relish, finally pushing the elastic of his pants down so she could get a good look at him. "Hips up."

He obliged swiftly, and she yanked the fabric down far enough that he could kick it off. Pausing, Hermione licked her lips at what was revealed. Free of his pants, his cock had sprung upwards, bobbing slightly with his heartbeat and flushed a dark red. Her hands hadn't been deceiving her; he was larger than Ron, and a good deal thicker as well. _Oh, this is going to be so much fun!_

"Just remember, my wicked witch, that I will be returning the favour. If not tonight, then in the not too distant future," he said smugly.

"Is that supposed to be a threat?"

"It's a promise, and you know it."

Hermione noted that the dratted man even had nicely muscled legs, with an even distribution of dark hair sprinkling his body and an intriguing treasure trail that was being cut off by the remainder of his nightwear. "Off with your shirt, Severus. I want to see all of you."

Reaching for the hem, he stopped. "Only if you take off yours."

"Done." Whipping the shirt off, she tossed it onto the chair by the window. For the first time, she felt a prickle of nerves dance up her spine. The darkness had made her brave, and now with the light on some of her confidence had fled. She wasn't a busty woman, and had always been self-conscious about how large her areolas were in comparison to her overall size; Lavender had once snidely commented that she may have b-cup breasts, but she had d-cup nipples. _And then there are my scars..._

For a moment, she dithered about whether or not she wanted to remove her glamours as well. _I doubt seeing "Mudblood" emblazoned on my arm is going to do anything for the mood_ , she decided and let them be. Hesitantly, she glanced at Severus, all of her fears rushing to the forefront.

The fierce look in his blazing eyes could have melted steel, and she exhaled shakily.

Catching the doubt that lingered in her expression, he gently ran his fingers down her arm. "Hermione, you are magnificent. Can't you see that?"

Absurdly, tears pricked at her eyes at his sweet words, and she bit her lip in an effort to not start sniffling like a ninny. _Ruddy hormones!_

Pushing back the knotted sheets with an irritated growl, Severus pulled her onto his lap and crushed his mouth to hers. The overwhelmingly male heat and scent of him surrounded her, and Hermione could feel the blunt, wet head of his penis pushing against her naked stomach leaving no question as to how he felt; lips shifting over hers hungrily, he cupped her head with one large hand and kissed her until she was literally breathless.

"You must be going blind," he growled, voice nothing more than a velvet purr. "You think I'm attractive, but some how you aren't? If anything, it's the other way around. You could do so much better than I…"

Once again, there was something in his words that gave her a clue to his earlier unrest, but before she could gather her thoughts enough to puzzle it out, he tenderly drew his fingers up her chest, teasing the stiff peak that he encountered.

"So fucking gorgeous… your tits could be a meal in themselves," he murmured and then bent his dark head to lick her nipples.

Hermione couldn't help the low moan that escaped, pleasure arcing through her like a bolt of lightning. He was careful—reverent even—but that didn't diminish the raw carnality of the gesture as his tongue flicked over one dusky bud and then the other. Never in her life had she felt so sexy, so desired.

Tipping his chin back so that his hair brushed over her breasts, Severus met her gaze. She could see the terrible need that was only just being contained, and knew that he hadn't been exaggerating when he voiced a concern over his lack of control; with one kiss, one caress, it would be so easy to let their lust spiral into a furious round of love-making.

 _You have time_ , the faint voice of her better reason whispered. _Be patient and know your limits on this evening. He trusts you to keep him safe in this…_

Squashing any hint of regret, she pushed him back onto the pillow. "Shirt off," she ordered huskily, shifting her knees so that she was straddling his upper legs. _I'm going to give him a show that he's never going to forget…_

Swiftly he pulled the t-shirt up and off. It was a knicker-wetting view, having Severus Snape spread naked in front of her like an erotic-themed buffet. He was panting heavily, and she enjoyed the sight of his lean muscles contracting sharply over his abdomen. She longed to run her tongue over the caramel nubs of his nipples, to finally taste the salt of his skin and totally lose herself in the hedonism of sex.

Letting her fingers slide up his thighs, she rested her hands on his narrow hips and curved her spine, thrusting her breasts forward. _Courage, Hermione, courage!_

"There is no possible way I could do better than you. None," she told him fiercely, and wrapped one hand back around his member, intent on showing just how lucky she felt. "Now lie back and do your best to think of England."

"Oh, fuck…" he drawled, hips coming off the bed and eyes falling to half-mast. "Look at you…"

Beginning to work his cock in earnest, she let her thumb graze the head on every other stroke, a thrill racing over her skin as she saw how much her touch affected him.

"Is there anything you don't like?"

It took an amusing amount of time before he could compose himself enough to answer. "I have a feeling there is very little that you could do that I wouldn't… appreciate."

Feeling bolder, she asked, "And is there anything you particularly enjoy?

Severus looked up at her, obsidian eyes full of fire. "My balls…" he ground out. Grinning wickedly, she tugged them lightly away from his body and then rolled his dense sack between her fingers experimentally. "I love when… yes, oh fuck yes exactly like that... don't stop!"

Her hand was moving more quickly over his shaft, twisting as she bobbed up and down, the wet sound of it competing with their harsh breathing. He was like stone against her palm, and Hermione knew that he was close to coming. In response, she tightened her grip almost to the point of roughness. To her surprise, Hermione found that she was aroused enough by the man underneath her that she had started rolling her hips as if riding him, the motion causing her breasts to bounce; Severus' attention was firmly fixed on them and for the first time she was truly confident in what she was doing.

Letting go of his balls, she brought her fingers up to one nipple and began to carefully tweak the hard point. "That's it, Severus," she crooned. "Come all over my tits like a good little boy…"

Severus gave an incoherent shout, hips unevenly thrusting into her hand as his entire body went rigid with the force of his impending climax. Two more strokes had hot jets of semen hitting her breasts and stomach; she eased off, not wanting to over stimulate him. Gasping, his eyes fluttered closed, and he seemed to sink further into the mattress. A rush of desire—of sheer power—raced through Hermione, and it was all she could do to not laugh like a mad woman.

_I did that! I made him come..!_

Slowly he opened his eyes again, gaze travelling down her face—and she knew that she was grinning like a loon—to her breasts, where thick white lines crisscrossed her curves in a vulgar masterpiece.

A dazed, if slightly smug smile appeared as he took it all in. "I stand by my earlier assertion that you are utterly magnificent."

Hermione didn't bother to hold back her happiness. "For once, I actually feel that way."

Reaching up, Severus ran long fingers through the mess on her skin, swirling it over a taut nipple. It was her turn to moan, the sensation just short of too much; she rocked forward, clit throbbing in time with her racing heart.

"And can I pleasure you?" he asked softly, continuing to tease her.

"Yes," she panted, "…I'm already pretty close."

His expression turned sly as he whispered a spell. Bringing his second hand to cover Hermione's cloth-covered mound, he gently started to rub, and she nearly came off the bed.

"Oh, god, your fingers are vibrating…" Arching her back, she leaned into the touch, feeling her own climax approaching at light speed.

His laugh was dark and knowing. "Somehow I doubt that Potter or Weasley ever taught you this particular charm."

"Severus…"

"That's it, ride my hand. Do you have any idea how sexy you are? Rising over me like a goddess reborn, and with my spunk dripping off your perfect little tits?" Decadent voice washing over her like velvet, Hermione felt the flood of electric ecstasy shoot through her, dark spots dancing before her eyes as she came with a final hard shudder.

Practically pitching face first into Severus, he caught her by the shoulders with another chuckle. Vaguely she was aware of him casting a cleansing charm over the both of them as he lowered her gently to his chest. The sensation of his pectoral hair grazing her nipples caused a shiver to run down her spine, and she carefully flexed her legs as feeling returned.

"Alright?"

"Mmmm," she mumbled, the glow of her orgasm settling into the familiar dull ache of cramps.

"Hermione?"

She cracked an eye open, seeing concern written on his face.

"I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"No. Climaxing makes my cramps worse for a couple of minutes," she explained sleepily. "It was absolutely worth it, however."

"Roll over on your back," he ordered, and she flopped off him. With sure, steady strokes, he began to knead her abdomen, pressing several targeted heat spells in the worse areas.

"Oh, that feels brilliant," she breathed as the pain abated. "You are a handy man to have around, Severus Snape."

He smiled, gaze tender as his touch. "Damn straight."

"I'm so glad you remembered to put up a silencing charm."

"Who knew we were both screamers?" he asked sardonically.

Hermione giggled. Giving her a final pat, Severus settled back down next to her, pulling her close and kissing her temple. "Can I turn off the light now?"

"Yes, dear."

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Muwhaha... how many of you thought that I was going to continue to draw things out? 
> 
> My thanks to ladykardasi for once again reading through this chapter and finding my mistakes, as well as all you lovely readers that have hung in there and continue to read and comment. This smut is for you ;)


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